It’s gone, this time for good I fear. I’ve searched everywhere, and it’s just . . . gone.
It may seem a little silly to get weepy-eyed emotional over something so many may see as nothing more than a throw away object to begin with, but to me, it was more than that; it was a mighty weapon in my personal arsenal, serving as both shield and sword; confidant and companion.
It served me well, beautifully well.
(View original – June 15, 2014)
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, not too heavy, not too light. It knows everything there is to know about me, it has written of my innermost thoughts and wishes and dreams. It’s 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 didn’t start out as my pen, it belonged to another, who, I have no idea. How I came to have it, or how it came to have me, I can’t recall. One day it was just mine, 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 such 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’m not the type to lie, but if someone asks if I have a pen they can borrow the only answer there can be is no. It’s not really a lie because my pen is so much more than just a pen; It’s 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 hold it in my hand. Some may not understand, I don’t quite understand it 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 wonder if they search for it still.
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 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 to put on a page.
Crystal R. Cook
This week my first trip to the ER was by ambulance. Talk about a bumpy ride. It seems to me those things should have some sort of super suspension with air-glide shock technology or something. Aside from the jarring ride, being in an ambulance was difficult for me. I kept thinking about the other people who had been strapped to that same gurney, looking out those same, dusty back windows. I couldn’t help but think about the reasons they had taken that same ride. I found myself sitting in prayer for them and for whoever the next passenger might be.
came by to chat. He said he came in because he couldn’t handle the life he was living anymore and wanted to detox himself. From what? they asked. Alcohol. How much do you drink? they asked. He said a fifth every couple of days. When was the last time you drank a fifth? they wanted to know. Yesterday at 11 am, he told them. The docs asked him where he lived, he said downtown. Homeless. If you drink a fifth every couple of days and live downtown, that typically means you’re homeless. They let him sleep. I sat in my bed and prayed for him.
Modest Sarah who couldn’t bring herself to say the word vagina was in the next bed over. She told the docs she maybe had a rash or something on her upper thigh. Turns out upper thigh meant vagina. Down there, she called it. She sounded young and rather mortified. I quickly diagnosed her with a UTI after she described her symptoms. So did the docs. She left without medication though, she had a plane to catch. I sat in my bed and prayed for her.
came in from the EMTs to let the ER staff know they were inbound. She was even less happy when they arrived. She screamed and fought and bellowed. She cursed the nurses, she told them they were incompetent. She didn’t think any of them were registered to be nurses. They managed to calm her down, for brief spurts of time anyway. At one point, she screamed so loud and so long it scared the crappers out of me. It was fear. Real fear. The kind of scream you hear in the movies. “You’re trying to kill me again!” I sat in my bed and prayed and prayed for her.
The Qwiet Muse 