It was the first time I truly noticed a mechanical pencil.
I’d had a 2mm clutch tucked into my Staedtler College Set back in high school,
but it was more artifact than companion,
ignored, misplaced, eventually lost without ceremony.
Then one afternoon, wandering the college shop;
that strange little cave of erasers and rulers and drafting gear
from brands I’d never heard of, some I couldn’t even read,
wedged between overpriced textbooks and stacks of notebooks,
I saw it.
Sleek.
Space-age.
Packaging adorned with mysterious Japanese script like a message from another world.
I don’t remember the price - only the feeling:
I had to have it.
That was thirty-six years ago.
And then, in 1998, it vanished.
Stolen from my desk while I was away,
Burying my father. They took his fountain pen too.
During his illness, I’d sit cross-legged on the grass
beneath the shade of a tree in the square outside our offices.
natty in my three-piece suit,
Sketching things familiar and dear, dreadful and nightmarish.
It was a kind of therapy,
A way to keep the approaching grief at bay for maybe just an hour.
That pencil was my tether.
A slender talisman of resin and metal - both tool and memory,
a portal to somewhere quieter.
While it was in my hand,
I could suspend reality,
vanish into line and shadow,
carving the shape of things not yet lost.
And then,
in a moment,
that too was taken.