They trip me. Purposefully I think, so I put them back in the container under the bed. There they can be still. And I reach for a stick of gum, only to pull out a pen. I reach for the keys and the pen falls out instead. One rolls off the Bible on the bedstand. Another, refusing to give up it's home on the floor, rolls around feet for weeks. They taunt me. I haven't used them in months. We haven't spent time together since the days when they were all I had left. We had a shared purpose in those days of suffering and loss. My soul clung to it's owner and we held on together; together with the pens.
I think they've gotten lonely. I can almost hear them whining for attention. Lonely pens of a writer. Is there anything more sad? And ironically they hold so much more potential for purpose now that they are not all that reside in my purse, glove compartment, side car door panel, back jeans pocket. They comingle with a paycheck. They sit beside jingling car keys. The bed that has the blanket and a pillow; they get lost in the covers when I intend to spend time with them but fall asleep instead. No wonder they whine! They have so many praises to express! Blessings to proclaim!
Ohhhh! Okay, guys! I get it. Gone are the days of writing from suffering. The days of praise are here!
What would a writer do without her pens?