Flash Fiction, January 2022.

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My papa calls me ‘Pen’.

It started when I was five, maybe six. I had this spiral notebook that I was always scribbling in. I remember the giant purple unicorn on the cover. Knock-off Lisa Frank. I drew lots of flowers and cartoon faces over those lined pages, and jotted down notes that probably felt important at the time, but are lost on me at this age. Daddy got it for me at a drugstore. He’d taken me along on errands that day because papa needed ‘alone time’. Papa always needed alone time, because papa didn’t like daddy or me very much for a while.

Daddy bought me gifts a lot. Little toys and trinkets. Each and every candy bar I pulled off the shelves. I know now how hard he was trying to spoil me. He was pouring enough love into me for two parents, because that’s what he had to be. I’m grateful that I didn’t notice it growing up. At least, I don’t remember noticing. Minds are funny that way – they block out the bad parts like spilled ink on a cream carpet.

One day I was writing in my notebook. My feet could just touch the floor beneath the kitchen table. Daddy was at school teaching his class, so Papa had to look after me. I watched him nurse cold coffee and stare hard at his own writing. He was writing songs that he didn’t like – I could tell because of the way his lips were turned. I swear, the man had a frown for every occasion.

“Papa?” I eventually asked, “Can I read you a poem I wrote?”

He blinked at me like he’d forgotten I was there. I might have imagined it, but he seemed disappointed to remember.

“You wrote a poem?”

I nodded and held up my book for emphasis. He let out a huff, but nothing else. I’m not sure why he decided to humor me that day, but I was thrilled that he did. And, when I finished reading, his eyes were a little wet. He wasn’t crying – not even close – but he felt something. He even started to smile.

“You wrote that? All by yourself?”

“Uh huh.”

“Where’d you learn all those big words?”

I grinned with gap-teeth, “From you!”

Papa seldom laughed, which was unfortunate. He had a nice laugh – hearty and deep. He looked younger when he laughed, even when wrinkles touched the corners of his eyes. He laughed then, and patted a calloused palm to my head.

“You mighta just wrote my whole next song, Pen.”

My eyes widened. A pet name? Just for me?

“Pen?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, as if he hadn’t just spun the world completely around.

“Mightier than the sword and all that.”