Friday, June 10, 2011


I'm running back toward the house.  I've left the car slewed halfway into a parallel spot halfway down my scrubby one-way street, no emergency brake, my purse plump in the passanger seat.  Now I'm galloping, already late for work, sleep in the corners of my eyes and coffee jabbing its heels into my flanks.

I spot the pen.

It's a blue plastic ballpoint, no cap.  It's lying in the middle of the sidewalk, discarded, glistening.  The morning is wet and warm as an old washcloth.  The sun is up; the Dow is down.  Darius's father and mother are hitting one another.  Someone has no electricity and someone is heartbroken and someone is autistic and there could be nuclear holocaust or climate catastrophe or a Palin presidency.

A PEN. And maybe it WORKS.

I've gone ten steps too far but I am young and my limbs are obedient.  I twist in the air, take a couple more steps, execute a graceful swoop and reach: minemineminemineminemine.  I secret the pen.  I stroll back to the house, retrieve whatever I forgot.  I amble back to my car and, whistling, pull out into the bright and terrible world.  I test the pen later, at work, and damn if that sucker doesn't write like a river, like blood, like oil, like joy.


Pam said...

What a great find :) Maybe it will be filled with words that aren't yours and when you write it will be in a totally different voice.

Anne said...

I think I have enough trouble with that already ;) But YES! A working pen! So precious!!! Maybe it'll get me through that last school day on Mon...

Ellie said...

I love you very much.