My Beloved Pencils (a eulogy)

Doodles fill my notebooks, handouts scrawled with symbols. For weeks I’ve gone to class, artist pencils and a fine-point pen in hand, eager to see what would take shape. Words were flying past, pages always filling up. Minutes flew by while my pencil continuously scratched. I would wander into my own imaginings and there forget Mr. Appel waxing eloquent, Mr. Wilson choking with copiousness, Mr. Griffith pounding Latin hard and fast. Lectures commemorated, not in bullet points and roman numerals, but in faces, fashion, and swirls. Words here and there; a phrase nicely crafted; once or twice an underline. My mind captivated, fumbling for words—thoughts rush too fast to convey them well in prose.

I’ll miss the relief of drawing whatever comes to mind, the satisfaction of remembering class through the pictures. But out of respect for the teachers, the students, the class, I have been admonished—my sketching is distracting. Finals are looming and most of my notes are hidden beneath graphite and ink. Specific details are lost and cannot be unearthed. Week 7 study will be tough. What is so clear to me beneath the stripes is really nothing but squiggles.

I lay my pencil down, elbows to myself. A singe ballpoint to write with; there are no more eraser crumbs or smudgy prints on Lordship books. My hands are free of the grey-smeared dust.

*~*~*~*~*

And for the record, this "dandy" piece merited more brownie points.