My Pencil

             My pencil transformed from a long stretchy instrument into a short stubby tool.  At first, it stretched longer than my hand.  It was a perfect shade of yellow that triggered my mind to use it every time I saw it.  My pencil was perfectly round, but others might have sides to them.  I loved laying mine on the top of my desk and letting it roll down to my hand.  The scratching sound it makes as I write reminds me of the brush sound that is made from the wind blowing on the leaves.  When I needed it to erase, which was rare, it sounded like a file sanding my mothers nails.  Afterwards, you would never forget the three swipes to push the eraser scraps to the floor.  The smell of the wood was fresh, and inspiring.  Whenever I smelled the newly cut wood and perfectly tipped eraser, it encouraged me to create a story.  I loved the feeling of it standing perfectly upwards in between my fingers.  It was a perfect size to grip, twirl, roll, and flip.  The feeling of it resting above my right ear when I needed to put it in storage was comforting and acted like a sense of security.  I even tasted my pencil once leaving bite marks all over my gripping point.  I tasted the eraser to see if the rubber was as good as chewing gum.  It was bland, with no flavor, but satisfying.  The wood of the pencil would splinter off in my mouth as I gently nibbled on the side.  I would then spit the wood scraps into the garbage can knowing that once again my pencil gave me satisfaction.  It surely held my stomach in check until lunch many days.  My pencil started out long and beautiful, full of color and hope.  However, I used it so much it became a stubble of an instrument.  “Mom…I need a new pencil” I whispered.