My pen died today. It inked its last line. And now, I grieve for my pen. I had become accustomed to its glide, its feel in my grip and, even in its latter stages, to its stops and starts, skips and skids. It gave me comfort to pick it up and hold it in my hand at the end of the day. I would even relish the moment, feeling its weight beyond mere mass and gravitational pull but beyond to its potential, its everlasting influence.
As we had grown together, so had we formed a symbiotic relationship. I was provided a medium to spill my thoughts and the pen, well, it was able to fulfill its purpose, which on its own it would have been powerless to do so. It saddens me to have lost it.
But then, I take a look at not its body, clip, ball point or retraction device, but at all the pages I have written with it as my necromancer. All the memories captured and personal insight gained among the pages of self-reflection, gratitude, drawings, stories, quips, and quotes. The thank you cards and get wells I cannot see, have still carried its ink to far corners of this nation and some even to the world.
My pen lived a full life and here on my pages I can come back to visit its memories. Not all pens have such a life. Some just fill out a check or a form their ink a part of a great bureaucracy. Others convey feedback to students bringing both joy and loathsome stares from children. No art, no life is left behind in these pens.
So today I may mourn my pen’s passing but I will also celebrate the life it lived and the legacy it has left.