I'll start at the beginning.
I have a pen I have had for about twenty years. yes. I really said twenty years. 20. years.
I used to be a fountain pen person, but while in grad school, I got tired of dealing with clogged pen nibs and smeared ink on my class notes and the side of my hand, so I replaced my Waterman fountain pen with a Waterman rollerball.
This one:
Ever since, I have had that pen in the zipper pocket of whatever backpack/purse/satchel I have owned. I haven't ever lost that pen. Now, I have other items I haven't lost. I'd actually be wearing my RayBan, tortoise shell, cat-eye sunglasses from the same time, but my youngest daughter destroyed them when she was wee. (which for the record means I had those sunglasses for over fifteen years.)
Last Sunday night, I opened my purse, unzipped the pocket, and reached in for my pen. My pen was not there. Now, I don't leave the house much (kids to and from school, grocery shopping, library- that's it.) so I knew I hadn't lost my pen somewhere else. I began a thorough and systematic search of my house. I couldn't find my pen. I was hoping my pen would turn up, since it had to be in the house somewhere.
Of course, I had searched my studio- floors, tables, places it might have rolled under; I searched. My studio is on the third floor, and I also have my clothing and dressing table up there. (our bedrooms lack usable closets, a common experience with houses built a hundred years ago.)
I probably go up and down the stairs to my studio forty times a day, at least. Between three children, needing to pee, get a drink, pee again, change the water in my brush bucket, switch laundry, start dinner, empty the dishwasher, and continue on working, I go up and down the stairs in my house all day long.
On Wednesday evening, after everyone was asleep, I went upstairs to my studio to print out a rough draft of a few pages, because I edit better on hard copy. I walked up those stairs for what would have been the hundredth time since losing my pen, minimum. I went into my studio and printed my stuff. I turned, and went to head back down the stairs.
There on the tippy-top step- you know that one that isn't really a step but the floor when you are done climbing the steps- but it is still wood like the steps? Dead-center, in the the middle, was my pen .Yep. Placed absolutely perpendicular to the stair edge. I was so thrilled- my pen! And then, I was a bit, um, puzzled-startled? (can't really find the right words...)
My pen certainly hadn't been there. At that moment, I was the only person awake, even my dogs were sound asleep. (Bella snores, loudly, btw.)
There's no place from where the pen could have rolled or fallen. I was in yoga pants and a t-shirt - pocket-less, and I had dressed in the basement. I've since tried to debunk the possibilities. Joe's tried to debunk the possibilities.
My pen is back; I sure wish it could talk.
