When I opened the packet with the
prescription medicine that I bought for my dad, I found the pen. Delmas Pharmacy inscribed on the side.
“Someone will be looking for it, having no
idea where they might have placed it. I must remember to take it back when I go
to Delmas again.”
I put it on my night stand, in plain sight.
As a reminder and so that it doesn’t get lost or somehow damaged. But to my dismay I forget to take it with
on the occasions I go to town.
About a month passes.
It is time to get a repeat on my father’s
medicine. I have to go to the pharmacy. That in itself reminds me of the pen. I
take it with, relieved that I still have it, undamaged.
“Here’s your pen. It was in the packet with
the pills you gave me last time” I say at the counter after asking for the
medicine. “I’m not sure whose is it exactly but I thought you’ll be looking for
it. Sorry that I’m only bringing it back now.”
The pharmacist and the assistant behind the
counter laugh at me.
“It is yours. A complimentary gift.”
I look at the pen in my hand and I look at
them. And we laugh without saying anything, feeling good, standing in the midst of life.
I cross the street and in the bank I fill
out the cash requisition slip. I don’t use the bank’s pen. I write with mine.
George
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