The Magic Pen

Laura Flett

The Magic Pen

I’m sitting in my backyard on a sunny early spring afternoon. My blue spiral notebook is on my lap and a magic pen is in my hand. The pen doesn’t look that special if you see it in my bag or on my desk, just a black gelstick pen with a cap. The magic begins when I touch it to paper.

Two fussy blue jays chase each other overhead. “Are they mad at each other or just playing?” My pen writes the question before I have time to think of it.

A squirrel buries a pecan in the next door neighbor’s yard, his bushy tail twitching as he digs. “How will he remember where he hid it?” my pen asks. I really don’t know.

There are tiny yellow flowers tucked throughout the greening grass. “Why do we call them weeds?” the pen questions.

Oh, and there are six fluffy dandelion seed balls lined up against the side of my house. “You can make a wish, you know. What will you wish for?” my pen asks. I stop writing for a moment to think of all the possibilities.

A yellow and black butterfly the size of my hand flits by. My pen records its brief appearance. A gentle breeze stirs the air around me and my pen takes note. I hear children playing down the street, and my pen scribbles the sounds across the page.

The sun goes behind a cloud, then peeks out again but I’m not looking at the sky. I know this because of the shadow of my pen that follows the in and out dance with the sun.

What good is all this magic from a pen on such a pleasant day, I think. I really don’t know.

But my pen keeps writing. Taking word pictures of the world around me and the thoughts running through my head to be read to some child I don’t even know before he or she goes to bed.

“They will be able to see the pictures and hear your thoughts,” the pen explains.

Oh. Now that’s magic.