This pen in my hand

There's something about grasping this pen, holding it in my hand, 

that calms my mind, something about waking each morning 

and opening the box that holds my pens 

and selecting one and removing the cap 

and wrapping my fingers around the barrel 

that softens my heart, lets me feel connected to the world, 

as if the pen is a secure ring that I can hold onto 

while spinning on the merry-go-ground of life, 

or like the string of a kite that lets me imagine myself 

soaring into the sky, floating in the clouds. 

It's like I'm holding my mother's hand again, 

feeling safe, protected, as she leads me into the world, 

even though she's been gone for more than forty years. 

It's like a memory machine that lets me hear my grandfather's voice again 

as he sits at our kitchen table on Sunday mornings

sipping his coffee and retelling stories about growing up 

in a Polish shtetl and coming to America 

and making a life for himself. 

It's like holding a magic wand that silences the negative voices in my head, 

and all I need to do is wave it over the blank pages of this journal 

and words will appear, like these words, which came out of the blue, 

out of thin air, out of nowhere, part of the mystery of the way writing works, 

and this pen in my hand is the key to entering into this mystery, 

to opening the door to my imagination, 

to feeling connected to the secret universe hidden inside my heart.