You need ’em, I got ‘em.
I have pens. Loads of pens. More pens than I will ever need in my life. Need to jot down a grocery list? No problem. Need to sign a document? An autograph? Draw a quick map? Grocery list? No worries, I’ve got you covered.
Oops, not that one. It isn’t running. This one, too, is out of ink. The other one over there is covered with some sort of mystery goo from the bottom of the coffee cup without the handle I use to corral my desk pens. My kitchen pens are thrown in that drawer there, under the partially melted birthday candles. My bedroom pens are scattered on the dresser.
Well, in this fistful of writing utensils, I’m sure there is one that will work. Take a look.
Oh. Not that one. It’s my favorite. I sign all important documents with that one. I would hate to lose it. It’s my lucky pen.
Or is it this one?
I hoard pens. My father hoarded pens. We are the Smaug of pens. He had a style of pen he preferred, and he never let me have any. So now that I’m a grown-up, I have 3 boxes of them — two in black, and one in purple. I am currently looking for green. Ha. To his credit, though, they are incredible pens. Every time I use one, I think of my father. Not a bad memorial token.
I always seem to be caught without a pen, though. So I find another one, and then it finds a refuge in my handbag, along with the three others.
It’s the way of pens. I am convinced they hang out with the socks that disappear from the laundry. So I collect them until one day, in the summer heat when I want to feel productive but even my eyelashes are sweating, I go through the log of pens and whittle them down, tossing ones that are dry, capless, or creak when they click.
I never fish ones back out of the trash. Nope. Not ever. Not usually.
My mother, on the other hand, preferred pencils. I have plenty of them, too.
