Photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash

I love pencils and I hate my fountain pen

I hate pencils. I’d much rather use a fountain pen to write things in my notebook. But this day and age, most fingers are tapping keys on laptops and desktops and even on smartphones. That’s what my children do, my three sons. My sons, my beautiful leaving sons.

But the store still carries pens, all sorts of them: fancy ones, cheap ones, and even multi-colored gel pens, which I don’t really categorize as fountain pens though. Anyway, what was I saying?

Yes, I hate pencils. And this includes those horrible little ‘click’ pencils with lead inserts. I hate those the most. As I look down at my shaking hand, I notice the beautifully ornate pen that my best friend gave me last week. I smile. I hear the sound of laughter from the past woven with the sound of school books, and those horrid click pencils. I’m writing, and they’re writing too, back in 2015 or so.

But surely this is not about how I write things, draw, or doodle little designs in the corner of my journal. No, it’s not about keeping up with details in my budget booklet either. It’s really nothing like that at all. I think I’m skating around the truth again, trying not to face what’s happening to me right now. As I sit alone in my home, I wonder how I got here.

Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash

No, I don’t ruminate on my mother and father and how I was born, where I was born or that old stuff. I wonder how I grew older so quickly, watching my babies grow into adults and leave me. I thought it was all okay.

I didn’t understand how pieces of my soul were being ripped away by every announcement of college acceptance, moving out of state, and “I’m going to stay with my father for a while”. No, I didn’t notice it until about 6 months ago.

So, I started writing more personal things. I journaled and jotted down all the emotions flipping around in my head, my heart dipping into the sea of darkness and coming up quickly for air. My visuals were astounding, but my heart was breaking in millions of pieces.

“But I thought I knew myself,” I whispered while alone. “I like being alone…don’t I?”

But the house grows larger as my pen scratches sentences across page after page of renegade feelings. My notebook weeps too as it’s front cover falls onto the floor.

“Damnit, not another one.”

I close my eyes and see another bag thrown over the shoulder of a young man as he waves goodbye.

Then I paint pictures of my middle son, the one who will be going to college in a few months. I think that immortalizing him as much as possible will fill my soul and piece together my heart for a while.

I will give gifts to him in hopes he will return more often. Is that bribery, and am I being toxic again? I cling tighter, kiss more cheeks, and cry in the bathroom during the early morning after my last babies go to school.

Then it’s back to the pen and paper, creating lives that never existed, sharing darkness that just won’t go away. My fountain pen never runs out of ink, and my eyes never run out of tears. Oh God! it’s unbearable.

Did I tell you how much I hated pencils. All my children used mechanical pencils in school. Endless afternoons of ‘clicks’ made me cringe as I pushed a pan of homemade cookie dough into the oven. Dinner would be done soon and they would be forced to put those blasted pencils down. I remember those times — I lost a home to questionable decisions, and lost years of something else.

“Why don’t’ you use a fountain pen to fill out those worksheets?”

Because, you know, mother knows best. But I guess I never really did know what was coming when I complained about dirty diapers, screaming fevers, and crayon painted walls.

On some occasion, along the years, each son would have the same answer.

“I like these pencils.”

I’m still sitting in the same spot over 10 years later, staring at the fountain pen my best friend gave me last week.

On a table in the corner, I see a mechanical pencil that my last baby, my 16-year old junior in high school, left by mistake this morning. I hate pencils, but I want to hold them in my hand. I want to touch the same thing that my blood, heart, and soul touches every day because soon, they will all be gone. I cannot stand this. I hate this…

I put down the fountain pen, walk over to the table and pick up the pencil.

Holding it to my ear, I press the top down.

‘click’

Tears stream from my eyes. I love my fountain pen.