Gone.
My beloved Parker Frontier is gone.
It disappeared sometime after I walked out of Criminal Procedure yesterday, and hasn't reappeared. It's not among my other books or papers. It wasn't in my bag. It wasn't in any of my pockets. It wasn't on the ground--and I covered and recovered every inch of ground I walked yesterday.
It's gone.
Since first-year undergrad, I had used it in every exam I'd taken. I can't imagine getting ready for an exam without it.
I'd used it to write more, though: cards and journals and letters--especially letters. I used it to sign my immigration documents.
The pen was an extension of me; a tangible link to a thousand little memories.
And I lost it.
It disappeared sometime after I walked out of Criminal Procedure yesterday, and hasn't reappeared. It's not among my other books or papers. It wasn't in my bag. It wasn't in any of my pockets. It wasn't on the ground--and I covered and recovered every inch of ground I walked yesterday.
It's gone.
Since first-year undergrad, I had used it in every exam I'd taken. I can't imagine getting ready for an exam without it.
I'd used it to write more, though: cards and journals and letters--especially letters. I used it to sign my immigration documents.
The pen was an extension of me; a tangible link to a thousand little memories.
And I lost it.