I pull the sheets out from beneath the couch. Eight years of rubbings. I remove the ninth from the tube. I choose the best from each year. I drag the coffee table away, push it against the wall underneath the windows.
I assemble the papers in order, by year, in rows of three, to form a square. It's close but there is just enough room on the floor. I study each piece carefully. There is a difference between the first, when I was fifteen, and today's. The wear has shown. Not dramatically, but it's there nevertheless. Chips here and there, a rougher texture today. I read each of them over, Clayton Phillips 1943-1967, Clayton Phillips...a spot near the y in the second year-dirt? Carelessness? It's not on any of the others.
Slowly, year by year, the weather begins to show. The texture is rougher I study these for a long time, trying to remember.