29D (published by MonkeyBicycle)

No one’s made a move yet among the hushed chatter and as we pitch and yaw something from the overhead bins caroms off my shoulder and I stare uncertain at my pen, safe in my grip, the fancy one she gave me on our first birthday together, Every aspiring writer needs a good pen, she’d said, and I didn’t tell her, Not a writer who’s lost every pen he’s ever had, who prefers the silent glide of a ball point to the scritch-scratch of a fountain pen, but I know she sensed my unease and saw through my mask, a burden not a gift (and yet here it is with me now), never mind how unwieldy and heavy it is or how many shirts and sofa cushions and car seats I’ve stained out of forgetfulness about the cap, no, not the pen for me and yet it’s the thought that counts, and waiting for my turn on the airphone I’m reminded of how very often she has thought of me, even if clumsily or off the mark, she has thought of me . . . (continues)