I don’t know if you’re like me, but I have a favorite pen. And I am quite attached to her.
Although I have a couple dozen in my desk drawer, I only have one on my desk – my favorite – her. I know that you’re not supposed to have favorites, ’cause it can really mess up the other pens and make them feel inferior. But the way I look at it, that’s okay, ’cause they are!
My pen and I have been together for several years, now. I picked her up at a trade show booth; her label reminds me of where she came from. As pens go, though, she’s a bit odd. Her barrel is not round as with most, but triangular. Perhaps it’s her uniqueness that draws me to her.
A while back, she ran out of ink. I did what I had to in order to save her – I performed a transplant; soon she was as good as new.
Last Thursday, the unthinkable happened. She disappeared. I held her as I lay down a book and the next thing I knew, she was gone. This had never happened before. As soon as I realized it, I immediately stopped work and searched in vain. I retraced my steps and looked in every conceivable hiding place – two or three times. I kept thinking that when I found her, I would remember leaving her there. But that was not to be.
Eventually I had to accept that she was gone. I pulled a replacement out of the drawer, but it wasn’t the same; it wasn’t her. Each time I went to write, I was painfully reminded of my loss.
Then today, surprise of surprises, I was at my desk and reached for a pen – and it was her. She came back. I didn’t ask where she’d been or what she’d done. I was just glad to see her again and accepted her back without question.