Day 8: The Pen

I hold the pen in my hand like you would hold a knife

A blank tablet lays on the seat of the chair I stand at

I hear her across the kitchen, clanging a pot from the cupboard

I stab at the tablet, and draw curlicues of what I think

Are letters, but they are not letters and I am frustrated

So I start to cry and throw the pen at the paper, it glances

Off and skids across through the kitchen doorway to her

Feet.

"What's wrong?" she says, bending to pick up the pen 

And I run to her, grabbing her legs, still wailing

In my memory my dialogue with my mother is clear

And concise, but I'm sure I was not as eloquent as 

I think I was, but I ask her when I will be able to write.

"When you go to school," she said patting caressing 

My head.  Then the memory fades into blue winter

Twilight.