Diameter

Perfect squares with perforation. Easy to pull too many. To prevent waste, parents instruct children to count them from the roller, one, two, three, four. I yank and hit glue. One square. Not enough. Open the drawer for a replacement. Empty. I call out for help in the early (4am) morning dark. Please, a roll of toilet paper. The door cracks. A hand attached to an arm (torso plus head hidden) stretches across the bathroom. Crisis averted. Too lazy, too tired, and too dark, I place the roll on the toilet tank rather than on its hitching post. More sleep (if dogs allow). Sunshine, good morning, coffee (with half-and-half, an American invention). Again, a pit stop. I reach behind me, grab the roll, and fumble. It lands feet away, out-of-my reach. Please, a roll of toilet paper. Yes, I know, you gave me one already. I see it across the abyss. Or so the distance reads in my mind. The space between my hands and paper gives me a moment to consider. In my life this invention (which in my experience ranges from near tree bark to silk pillows) provides when needed most.