i remember my Old Man
sitting at His office desk, writing in his journal.
i toddled over to Him,
climbed onto His lap
and He paused to help me up.
i asked Him if i could write.
He handed me a pen,
a very nice, very special pen
and showed me how to hold it.
then He held my hand
and We wrote together.
i remember the pen,
the paper, the morning,
the smell of coffee and old books.
i remember the feel of the pen
and the feel of His hand on my mine.
but i cannot for the life of me
remember what We wrote.
it’s a good thing
it’s written down somewhere.

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