I write these words with the cheap pen given to me by a crippled old man, the man being the elderly father of a prematurely broken young man who used to mean the world to me. If he still means the world to me I am unwilling to find out. I do not invite contemplation of the person, nor the accompanying emotions that I have so deftly edited out.

Somehow this pen has survived the cleansing.

The pen is cheap and has no interesting features. Being of the sort that values good design, I question this pen’s survival in my life. It should be out of ink—tossed. I have more precise writing instruments. I question the comfort I feel when it is grasped in my hand. The smooth yet grainy black shaft is stamped with words set in small yellow type. They read:

Just A Reminder

December 22 is My Birthday

Roger Peterson

Happy Birthday! Sorry Roger. Better late than never.