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After we buried my father, we began the sad process of packing his life away. Everything we touched held a memory, and naturally we planned to cherish those items that held the most emotional connection.

For me, that would be the Parker fountain pen he had used since I was ten years old. But although we searched everywhere, we could not find it.

I had bought my father the pen as a Christmas gift. I saved up all year for it, and my mother helped me choose the beautiful blue and silver pen with the familiar arrow on the cap.

I shall never forget watching my father open his presents on Christmas morning. He always took a long time about it, shaking the box in its bright red and green wrapping and trying to guess what was inside. Funny guesses, that made me laugh out loud.

If the box made no sound, he would pull a face and say, ``a pair of socks?" I would cover my mouth to stop the giggles escaping and shake my head.

If it rattled, he would wonder aloud if it was a new pipe and wonder if it had broken - ``maybe I can glue it together," he would say thoughtfully, rattling the box again.
Eventually, he would carefully unwrap the present, peeling back the paper and smoothing it out with maddening slowness. ``Good for next year," he would say.

The year I gave him the pen, this ritual seemed to go on forever. He examined the long, slender box from all sides. He admired the paper red with golden Christmas bells and he asked me if I had tied the ribbon myself. When I said I had, he smiled. ``Very neat," he said, ``as good as if your mother had tied it."

Then he rattled the box. Snug in its holder, the pen did not rattle.

``I know what it is,' he said, pulling a long face. ``It's a tie."

I burst out laughing. He never wore a tie.

``Then maybe it's hm a letter opener? A fish knife? A drinking straw?" As the guesses became more implausible, I was fairly jumping with impatience.

He took his time about opening it, as if he was savoring every moment. Then the box appeared, with the word Parker on it, and he opened it very slowly and took out the pen.

I knew from the look on his face as he turned it over in his fingers, that this was the best present I had ever bought.

My father had always loved a good pen. He wrote in his journal every night, and signed his business letters with a flowing script. He loved the way a good pen flowed the ink onto the page, the way it snapped shut when he replaced the cap, and slid comfortably into his jacket pocket when he was finished with it. Whenever he

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