by Winton, Tom
Blanche was spreading toothpaste onto our brushes. As she handed me mine, she said, “Ernest is going to be so proud of you.”
“I hope so,” I said. “After all, that’s why I was allowed to come back . . . to write that book. I can’t wait to tell him the good news.”
“Who knows? He might already know.”
“Maybe, but I’m going to tell him anyway.”
I finished brushing before Blanche did and went back into the bedroom. Standing at the foot of the bed and about to pull my tee shirt over my head to get ready to take a shower, I suddenly got a very strange feeling. For some reason my eyes were pulled towards my nightstand. Still holding the bottom of my shirt in both hands and squinting toward the lamp’s dim light, I noticed something there that minutes earlier hadn’t been. I took one step closer, and I froze in my tracks. At first I was stunned by what was lying in front of my water glass, but then I smiled. It was a pencil. It was small, almost sharpened down to a stub. And it was green.
