George was waiting for his pen to write. Some days he could sit for long minutes, whilst everything began and got tangled up and then there would be this small friendly nudge in his hand and off the pen would go, travelling.
Until the pen had started to write and tell him things, George had never bothered much with writing. He was a reader not a writer. He preferred sitting in corners avoiding chores and conversation just reading, taking his time. But then his Aunt had left him and this pen had arrived one day with a special note, written a few days before she died, asking him to write. To write freely she said. Freely, as if for life.
The dust seemed comfortable today and even his cheeks felt the warmth of this powdery gift.