My dear pink pen.

I was telling the tragic story of my pink pen the other day with the result of many blank looks. No one seems to understand my distress at the loss of my favorite pen.

I'd had that pen since High School. I kept it in my purse at all times. I signed checks and receipts with it and if I ever needed to write a quick note, it was always there.
Until last week. I went to pull it out and found it was missing. At the time, I didn't think much of it, I was sure it had probably fallen out of my wallet to the bottom of my abyss of a purse and I'd just dig it out later. When later came around, I was distressed to find that it was nowhere in my purse.
I hoped it was somewhere in my car or at home. But after searching both I still didn't find it. And then, the next morning while walking into my office, there it was.

Smashed to pieces in the parking lot.

It must have fallen out of my purse on my way to or from my car one day and I didn't notice. So the poor thing got run over.
I'm quite sad about the whole situation. That pen has been my confidant for over 2 years. I wrote poems and odd bits and pieces of songs. That pen helped immortalize my thoughts. And it went everywhere with me. It even graciously accompanied me to Cuba. And now it's dead. I have no choice but to go and buy a new pink pen to replace it.
The pink pen is my signature. All through High School, that's how my teachers identified my work. If there was a name in pink in the top right corner, they knew who it was. Same with yearbook signing. Pink ink was my thing. So, I'll be stopping at Smith's today when I get off work to purchase my replacement. But my old pen will forever hold a special place in my heart.