The gift

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