My favorite pen . . .

My favorite pen fits perfectly in my hand. Sleek silver shell, slightly cold at first until warmed by the words it will ink to a page. It has substance, it is not too heavy and it is not too light. It knows everything there is to know about me, it has written of my innermost thoughts and wishes and dreams. It has shared in my heartache and rejoiced in my joy. With my pen in hand we waltz across the page, dancing with words to music no one else can hear.

It did not start out as my pen, it belonged to another. How I came to have it, or how it came to have me I do not know. One day it was mine and it became an extension of my soul. When I first touched it to a blank page, I watched the dark, black ink seeping into the stark white paper and I saw pure and perfect beauty. Never has a pen touched the page so softly, leaving a smooth trail of elegance wherever it goes.

My children often try to take it; my husband seeks to steal it away from me. My perfect pen is wanted by all. I carry it with me wherever I go. I am not the type to lie, but if someone asked if I had a pen they could borrow I would more likely than not say no. It would not really be a lie because it is so much more than just a pen; it is my partner, my confidant and my friend.

I've used many others but this one has something they did not, I know not what it is but I feel it when I place it in my hand. Some may not understand I don't quite understand it all myself, I simply know it is a special pen. I wonder what hands have held it before. I wonder if they knew what a treasure they held.

I hope to keep it always; I doubt I could ever find another good enough to take its place. Is it odd to hold such attachment to an ordinary object, one that is disposable to most, irreplaceable to me? My pen is my pen; I'll care for and keep it as long as I can. It has many more words yet to put on a page