A couple of months ago, a coworker gave me an amazing pen. It was a blue gel pen. It wrote like silk across the paper. It almost got to a point that I didn’t want to type anymore. The pen was that amazeballs.
I guarded it with my life. I would use it at work and quickly it would be tucked away in my pocket. The pen became a part of my daily work clothes. I never even let anyone borrow it. The way the pen wrote was majestic. I could never let anyone else experience its liquid beauty.
Before I left for work yesterday, I was joking with my daughter about my pen. She knew how much I loved it. She also told me how she would steal her friends’ gel pens whenever she could. So I pretended that I thought she had stolen it from me. She couldn’t keep a straight face. Even though she never took the pen (it was well hidden) she couldn’t remain serious enough to prove to me that she hadn’t stolen it. I left for work having her think either a) I was crazy or b) She was crazy. I still had my pen.
But last night it died. It appeared that it ran out of gel. I was saddened by this and a bit surprised at myself. I was going to miss My Pen! Usually when a pen dies you just throw it out and grab a new one. Or if you’re like me, you put the dead pen back into the mug of pens and then grab a different one. On a rare occasion, I will huck the pen at something (usually out into the hall at work or at the computer screen) in frustration.
But this wasn’t frustration. Nor was it simply put the pen in the trash or even the “communal work pen mug”. It was genuine sadness at the loss of such a beautiful instrument. I could never replace its grip or fluidity. I will mourn my gel pen for… moments to come. I just need to come to grips with the fact that it’s gone.