I stole some pens from my dad.

He always had a lot of pens, like, more than would ever be reasonably necessary. He bought them in large multi-packs, maybe because they're cheaper that way and also because of some kind of Boy Scout logic that told him you can never have too many pens. He is absent-minded, too, so maybe they disappear like socks in the dryer. I don't have a specific memory, but it's easy for me to imagine him grumping around the house, looking for a pen. Daddy is a constant low-level grumbler. But it's light-hearted. Crotchedy. Say something smart back and earn a grin in response.

But the last time I visited, when he was in the hospital the whole time and not at the house for mealtimes with the rest of us, I saw a big cup full of pens on his desk. And they were the same kind I have at home, that I buy for full price at the shiny retail office supply store in two-packs because I like them so much. You know, you should always have a good pen handy.

So I took them. THREE of them.

In my defense:
1. There were a bunch left.
2. They were dusty.
3. Everything I associate with him has become incredibly significant.

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