The Smell of Old Memories
I was writing a letter to my Papaw with an old pen. I’m surprised it wasn’t dried out, because its been shuffling around with my various things, moving from place to place, lying unused in the bottom of cardboard boxes and school-issued desk drawers for at least four years.
I got it free as part of signing up for some give-away that I never won. The barrel is thin, white with pale blue writing, and a nub that sticks out just a little too far. I never use it because its awkward to hold, causing me to write slower.
But it was the only pen I could find when I decided to write my Papaw; all the good pens have either been put away in proper places from which I was feeling too lazy to fetch, or snitched for purses, backpacks and pockets. My husband is a great one to keep pens in his pockets, and he always looses them.
It didn’t matter if it was a slow-writing pen, as I was writing to my Papaw. For my writing practices, I always use a pen I can glide across the page with like ballroom dancers at a competition. I hate to be hindered with slow, precise movements when I’m trying to catch my thoughts before they float away, never to be seen again. But for this endeavor, writing more slowly was best. It made me write the words larger, carefully formed, easier for his tired old eyes to read. And I found myself thinking more about the solid weight of each word.
As I was writing, I realized the ink, old and cheap as it was, smelled faintly like peppermint. When I was little, I loved peppermints. And Papaw has always kept some in his pocket, rustling in their cellophane wrappers, gladly dispensing them to any of us grandkids who might stop by after church on Sundays.
When she was alive, Mamaw believed peppermint was good for the stomach. She always had the thick, round, pink ones, in the bags you buy two for a dollar. She kept them by her side all the time, and thinking back on it, I realize that even then, when I was small, she must have been suffering from the stomach cancer that eventually killed her. She’d slip them to us on the sly, when our parents weren’t looking.
So it seemed right to me, to have this old pen, and write my Papaw about how much I missed him, in this place that’s too far away to stop in for a visit, and sneak a couple of mints.
I was writing a letter to my Papaw with an old pen. I’m surprised it wasn’t dried out, because its been shuffling around with my various things, moving from place to place, lying unused in the bottom of cardboard boxes and school-issued desk drawers for at least four years.
I got it free as part of signing up for some give-away that I never won. The barrel is thin, white with pale blue writing, and a nub that sticks out just a little too far. I never use it because its awkward to hold, causing me to write slower.
But it was the only pen I could find when I decided to write my Papaw; all the good pens have either been put away in proper places from which I was feeling too lazy to fetch, or snitched for purses, backpacks and pockets. My husband is a great one to keep pens in his pockets, and he always looses them.
It didn’t matter if it was a slow-writing pen, as I was writing to my Papaw. For my writing practices, I always use a pen I can glide across the page with like ballroom dancers at a competition. I hate to be hindered with slow, precise movements when I’m trying to catch my thoughts before they float away, never to be seen again. But for this endeavor, writing more slowly was best. It made me write the words larger, carefully formed, easier for his tired old eyes to read. And I found myself thinking more about the solid weight of each word.
As I was writing, I realized the ink, old and cheap as it was, smelled faintly like peppermint. When I was little, I loved peppermints. And Papaw has always kept some in his pocket, rustling in their cellophane wrappers, gladly dispensing them to any of us grandkids who might stop by after church on Sundays.
When she was alive, Mamaw believed peppermint was good for the stomach. She always had the thick, round, pink ones, in the bags you buy two for a dollar. She kept them by her side all the time, and thinking back on it, I realize that even then, when I was small, she must have been suffering from the stomach cancer that eventually killed her. She’d slip them to us on the sly, when our parents weren’t looking.
So it seemed right to me, to have this old pen, and write my Papaw about how much I missed him, in this place that’s too far away to stop in for a visit, and sneak a couple of mints.
posted by Amanda at
6:19 PM
