Holding on and letting go — the old fountain pen writes of connectedness, collaboration and shared promises

FALLS CHURCH, Va. — When I was in Junior High School my parents and I had a yearly ritual beginning with the first September of the Seventh Grade. I got to pick out a new Esterbrook fountain pen. Learning to fill it with ink, the blue black river of unshaped words, was a thrill I obviously have not forgotten. Just me, and a blank piece of paper, and my pen working together to find out what I was thinking about.

Waiting Room – Intimations of mortality

EL PASO, Texas — The doctor has an understanding look, a tender look in his eye and I see that he is a man who is moved by his patient’s anguish. He reminds me a little of Brother Juniper, the old comic strip character, because of his tender eyes and the slightly bent-over aspect as he reads the just faxed results of the CAT scan. “Negative,” he says looking up at me and he says it loudly and leans forward and grasps my hand. “Nothing, nada.” He smiles. And I…am thinking of the other examination room just a week earlier when another doctor said, “I’m ordering a CAT scan.