The Red Pen

The ink flows smoothly from the pen as her fingers grasp its smooth surface. So far she has only managed to write the date. Her mind has been wandering… wandering a bit too much lately.

Sitting on the park bench she lifts her head up, closes her eyes and breathes deeply of the spring air. A sigh escapes her lips and a young man takes a quick peek at the woman as he jogs by, his attention caught for a moment by the sadness of the woman’s sigh.

The woman turns her face from the warm sun and looks down at the smooth page. She’s been staring at it for long minutes, unable to get the words out. How can she, when she hasn’t even fully comprehended the events of the past few days? She takes another breath, and puts pen to paper.

“Dear Sophie,” she writes, and the words pour forth from her pen as surely as if she were speaking directly to the page. The sound of the pen as it scrapes across the paper is drowned out by the sound of children playing nearby. Before she knows it, she’s written to the bottom of the page. And she signs it, “With Love,…”

She folds the crisp sheet into quarters, and slides it into the addressed envelope she has slid from her purse. With a lick and a sigh, she looks over her shoulder to the mailbox at the other end of the bench. She doesn’t want to mail it, but she has to. She’s already come so far.

With a heavy heart, she stands up, gathers her things, and puts her grandmother’s favourite pen, now her favourite, back into her purse. She takes the letter, and walks to the mailbox. The door opens, the letter falls into the darkness.

Taking one last look at the spring day unfolding around her, she walks back to work. Feeling lighter with every step.


For The Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge.

Prompt: Object