My neighbor’s husband died at

98 and I should write a letter but it’s been so long since I’ve done so

even finding the stationary is as hopeless as finding  an honest man.

I like the instruments of communication: the fine, heavy pen with

black and gold scroll on its stem and the thick, ecru

cards matched like dancing class with their own envelopes lined with forest green

tissue so thin it might tear and stop protecting those elegant phrases underneath.

Often, when I was younger, I wrote for the sake of using these implements,

just as I spoke for the sake of using my voice. Having no real desire to let someone

know my thoughts, a letter or a song, or a line in a play, could communicate different

realities I chose  with ease. Holding my Koh-I Noor Rapidograph .13 Technical pen like a

curtain between two worlds transcribing, ghostwriting, makes it safe to say anything I

dream of now.