A Ticonderoga

I've started to write in long-hand again. I used to write with pencils pre laptop. When I write, even here, I do so with expectation. I am the hovering face over every word. With a pencil, all my words are free to be boring, ordinary, not unusual, not blessed, just the product of lead. They can be leaden. The callus I got on the third finger of my right hand which has been vacationing all these years is now rising again from the insistent pressure of a yellow Ticonderoga.