Norris Gaynor, I Found Your Pen

We meet at the Lowe’s Home Improvement Store. I am carrying bundles of wire coil and a three-pronged claw hammer that looks to be from the Hundred Years’ War. I hoist myself up into my mangy pick-up and spy You behind the seat, tangled in the bungee cord thoroughly chewed by Godzilla dog. A pen! A classy writing utensil; royal blue and smooth in hand. Intuition tells me you’ll write in those silky thick lines I like. Where have you been all my life? This is no place for your glam, amongst dirt, dog fur, and wadded up Dunkin Donuts napkins. Gently, I lift you into my clean palm. My eyes linger over your cobalt blue and silver trimwork—and, wait, what is this?! Lettering? On your side, a tattoo? Wrought in classic Times Roman font:

     Norris Gaynor
     Summit Hill Elem. Sch.

A fine, educated name for the owner of this personalized pen. The abbreviation tells me that a 22-letters-and-spaces-per-line limit was encountered in its manufacture. Norris Gaynor, I feel your struggle to make the best use of letters: shortening here, punctuating there, until you reach a satisfying verbiage. After the finished instrument was delivered to you, Norris Gaynor, I feel your pleasure, clasping pen in hand, writing, writing. Then too, I sense your loss of the pen and the disappointing search. Are you yearning, Norris Gaynor? Later today I will Google “Summit Hill Elementary School” to find it located 1,000 miles away from here, in Alpharetta, Georgia. How a pen like this landed in my Massachusetts truck is one of life’s mysteries.

I uncrumple a napkin and set it across my blue jeans. The doodle I draw on its crinkled surface is a smooth pointed pressure against my thigh. This pen has a proper weight. Over time, using it will cause the hand to become finely muscled. I write, Norris Gaynor, I found your pen.