The Proof

"Good morning, class. Welcome to your Philosophy 101 final exam. You were asked to bring only a pen or pencil. If you have brought anything additional, you are excused from the exam, and will receive an email with an assignment for not being able to follow instructions. Also, the best you will be able to score on the assignment is a 'C.'"

There were three or four students who left the room. They had brought bottles of water, cups of coffee, and one person had brought a timer. The professor circled their names on the class roster, then calmly addressed us again, "Please direct your attention to the this object I am placing in front of the lectern."

I was 18, a freshman in college. It was my very first final exam. I had spent the preceding reading days boning up on all things philosophy. I watched the professor as he moved the object in front of the lectern. It was a chair. He waved his hands around it, as if he had conjured it from thin air.

"Class, take the rest of the exam period, which is 90 minutes, and prove that this object exists. Leave your blue books on the lectern and I will pick them up later." He quietly exited the room with a small smile on his face, knowing he had thrown something at us for which we didn't have a rote answer. The door very quietly snicked shut.

I wrote my name on the front of the blue book, opened it to the first page, wrote the question at the top, and just below, in my best penmanship, stated, "It doesn't." I closed the blue book, put it on the lectern, and left the room. I received an 'A.'

Over the years, I wondered if my professor remembered me. He probably didn't remember me but likely remembered my answer.

At 31, I began carrying a black Sharpie in my handbag. You never could be too sure when you would need to leave graffiti. In Chicago, I wrote on a table in Gino's East, while we waited for our pizza to be served. In Perkinsville, Indiana, I wrote on the wall of the ladies' bathroom. In Michigan, I wrote on the wall along the staircase inside a lighthouse. In restaurants, I scribbled on menus-- sometimes I drew a dog, cat, Santa, the server's face, the scene outside the window, always with my name in very clear block print. The thing was, I was drawing and writing on things that weren't mine and would never be mine.

In Barcelona, I bought a tile, temporarily mine, and with my Sharpie, I drew The Magic Fountains. I left it near the base of the fountains. In Paris, I wrote my name on a paper bag from a boulangerie, in the Gothic font from Le Metro, leaving it on an outdoor cafe table. In Athens, I drew horns on the statues in the book I purchased in the gift shop of the National Museum and carefully placed it on one of the steps at the Acropolis. In New York, I drew the lions from the Met on the back of a manilla folder and inserted it in a book in the Public Library.

I used matchbooks, receipts, food wrappers, other found objects, and I left them around the world in the hope someone would find my tiny masterpiece and look for me on the internet. I yearned for someone to message me on social media with a photo and ask if I was the creator this small, intriguing thing. I dreamed of having a collection of photos of the hundreds of little drawings and words I had left behind to decorate the map of my existence. I wanted to be known, not only known by the people of my day-to-day life, but by the world at large.

I found myself visiting my parents on a summer afternoon. The sun blazing, its violence tempered by a gentle breeze dancing through the elms and oaks surrounding the pool deck. I leaned my head back on the patio chair, eyes closed, feeling a pleasant warmth on my cheeks and the top of my head, the quiet punctuated by the sounds of the leaves holding tightly to their branches. On my lap sat my parents' mail: appeals for donations, catalogs, an occasional bill. On the back of one of the envelopes, I drew my dad's eyes. A black Sharpie would never capture the watery blue, but I could get the shape. I could draw the sparkle, the fine lines, the turned corners that hinted at a smile. I knew this person. I knew these eyes. They were mine, too.

My mother came out to the deck to join me. She saw my drawing. "Your dad?" she asked.

"Yeah," I answered.

"I'm so sorry he's having a bad day," she said, taking my hand in hers. "I mean, he's not having a bad day. He's happy. He just doesn't remember as well as he does on other days. You know how it is."

I knew how it was. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "I should get going," I said.

"Well, come back in and say goodbye to him," Mom said.

We went back into the house. In the family room, my dad was watching a Cubs game. My mom stood in front of the TV, and my dad looked at the two of us.

"My goodness, you look just like a young lady I knew back when I was still teaching. Such a pretty thing, she was," he said. "Are you leaving already?"

"I am. I have a bit of a drive ahead of me," I said. "I, uh...I drew this for you." I handed him the envelope.

"This is me, isn't it?" he asked. "Are you an artist? One of my daughters is an artist. Do you know her? Have you seen her work? You should come back when she comes to visit. She's funny. Great sense of humor." He paused, scrutinizing the envelope. "You know, my daughter is an artist. She would even draw something like this. You should see her work. It's different. Special."

"I have seen her work. I like it very much," I answered.

In the car, driving home, I knew I had become a myth, and I wasn't sure my dad would ever be able to prove my concrete existence. And it made me afraid because he was one half of the equation of my creation. How would I know I existed if he had forgotten?