“Where’s my pen? Do you have it? Johnny, Carol, Susan, please don’t let me go without finding my pen?” That’s all George has said for the last three weeks. He’s repeated it over and over again, day after day, and now week after week. The children moved him into hospice care four weeks ago after doctors told them that the cancer was out of control and there was nothing left that they could do for him. But the doctors have no explanation for him hanging on so long.

George had been married to Jenny for 57 years when Jenny passed away 4 years ago. George, an author, kept up with his writing even after she died. He said it was the only thing that gave him joy anymore. His writing, he said, kept Jenny close to his heart.

“Dad, what pen are you talking about? Can you please tell us about it? Where can we find it? We’ll go get it for you, if you just tell us where it is.” Carol begged him to tell her about the pen, and where the pen might be, but he only looked past her, through her. And then he went on repeating, “Where’s my pen? Do you have it? Johnny, Carol, Susan, please don’t let me go without finding my pen?” Over and over again.

George continued his decline, but he kept asking his question. Johnny, Carol and Susan decided to spend the whole night keeping vigil with him. As Susan fluffed his pillows and arranged his sheets she noticed something under his pillow. It was an envelope, an old, yellowed envelope. On the outside was written, “To me dearest Georgie!” “Oh my gosh! Look what I found,” Susan exclaimed. She held up the letter, the writing on it was unmistakable. It was their mother’s handwriting.

Inside of it was a letter, about a dozen sheets of handwritten paper that had once been crumpled up but have long since been smoothed and folded up, and a pen. “A pen!” Susan shouted. “What else is in there?” Asked Carol. Susan showed them the letter and the stack of papers. “Read it! Read it!” Said both Carol and Johnny, like two little kids waiting to hear a letter from Santa Claus.

Susan started reading:

August 10, 1989

“My Dearest Georgie,

I came across these pages in the waste paper basket while I was cleaning up today. I don’t know why you threw them out because you’ll never know if you can write if you just keep tossing out your work. So I want you to know one thing, I BELIEVE IN YOU! You can do anything you set your mind to. These pages may not be the great novel that you have dreamt of writing, but I believe that there is a novel inside of you just waiting to be written. Please use this pen to follow your dreams. And most of all, whatever happens, your Schatzi Jenny loves you and believes in you.

I love you with all of my heart!

Your, Jenny

Susan examined the pen. It was a deep blue fountain pen, and on its barrel, “I BELIEVE IN YOU!” was printed in gold lettering. As Susan handed the letter and the pages around for her brother and sister to see, she felt a tap on her arm. Her dad held out his hand and she gave him the pen. He gripped tightly it and smiled, “I believe in you too, My Schatzi.” And he passed away.