Magic nobody will be able to experience. Only me.
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 ink-pen with a cap. The magic begins, when I touch it to the paper. Two birds circling around each other in a wild fight. “Are they mad at each other or just playing?” My pen writes the question, before I have time to think of it. Weird.
A squirrel buries some nuts in the next door neighbor’s yard, his bushy red tail moves energetically as he digs. “How will he remember, where he hid it?” my pen asks. I really don’t know. There are tiny yellow flowers hidden in the green grass. “Why do we call them weeds?” my pen asks again. Oh and there are eight downy dandelion-seed balls lined up against the side of my house. “Are they weeds too?” My pen kept asking many stupid questions. “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 beautiful, purple butterfly the size of my hand flies by. My pen records the butterfly in my thought. A gentle breeze cools the air around me, and my pen does his job. Writing my thoughts down on paper. I hear children playing down the street. My pen describes the sounds across the page. The sun goes behind a cloud, and 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. It is so ravishing and powerful.
But my pen keeps writing. Taking words and 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