. . . a whole lot of things. To a whole lot of people. And it's not even mine. No, not mine. But I bought it. And I gave it to Erin during her senior year in college. Her major was piano performance. I thought she'd need a nice pen for the compositions I imagined she'd write some day. It turned out . . . Let me say . . . Truth is, she never used the pen. The barrel had never held a single ink cartridge within its hollow cavity. The nib never slid across a sheet of paper of any kind, or left ink in its wake. A musical score? Heck. It's never written down a shopping list for the grocery store. Its protective leather sleeve still smells new. I found said gift in an abandoned box of pens, pencils, markers and crayons. A pearl stashed among swine, if you will. The only fountain pen.
So I rescued it. I had to. It's been nothing but grateful since. The pretty red pen fits my hand like it was meant to be. Perfect heft. Perfect length. Ideal for someme with a penchant for the color red and fountain pens. The right color red.
Such a gem demands only the bluest ink. I accommodate as if it's my one and only grandchild, and it thinks its mother is its sister. In its eyes, I am its mother. And that's just the way it will be. With this pen I thee said a lot of things in silence. Words on paper are the quietest, safest, most honest and personal. White margins ripped from the likes of Oxford American, Heirloom, and Mindful hold words I am bound to forget when thoughts and memories flood my mind in a rush too fast for remembrance. My words litter any space I'm in long enough to write. Perhaps I write too much?
I used to wonder if I read too much, if I'd filled my head space with unimportant trivia that would never win me a car or a seven day, six night cruise on a big Norwegian ship, if by some real miracle I won like a maniac on Jeopardy some day. It's possible. Anything is possible. There's so much stuff packed, tamped down and crammed deep within my brain that it takes a while to access it. It's not there for nothing.
It takes longer to access some things, just as it does when a Mac slows down--in need of more memory. Hell, I can use some too. Why does a machine get what I so
desperately obviously need when I'm grabbing at names and words for people and things I suddenly cannot force to the front of my brain and out of my mouth on demand? Never mind. With this pen I can still say. And once I have said said thoughts on paper, why it's banana-pudding-easy to re-call my words to the forefront. Aha! See how easy that was? See how it pays to have a red pen that speaks on paper exactly what you tell it? Oh, the letters I see in its future! What's red and silver, and rhymes with liver? The Red River! Its water is blue!
Go! Write a letter; 'tis the month for corresponding . . . unfettered. I did. Want to see?
Okay, but only if you promise not to tell ykw. Quick!
Sorry for the sorry angle. And the glare.
It looks better in person but one should never draw and watch an NBA game at the same time. But do use the rich, heavy packing paper that comes as filler in a mail order purchase. Crumple said paper for character after writing the letter.