The Pencil Nub

 

It’s only a pencil nub I found in my daughter’s art supplies, but it is significant.  It is part of our shared experience as we sit together on a Sunday morning conceptualizing her Mother’s Day project and talk about things both serious and silly, though mostly silly.

She has a smile that could power a town; a dimple so deep I could fall into it.  I am painfully aware these times are limited.  She is on the cusp of leaving her childhood behind and even now anticipates the day she will be a mother in what she says and does.

She laughs at the pencil nub as I act out writing tiny script on an impossibly small piece of paper.  She tells me she and a friend at school were continuously breaking off the lead, sharpening and re-sharpening, until they created this comical writing utensil.

I feel she is sharpening and re-sharpening me as a human being; watching me shrink day by day even as she grows.  I furiously write to better understand myself, the world around me, and to leave a legacy of sorts to my children and my children’s children.

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