Look around you and choose an object in the
room. Now write something from the point
of view of that object.
My purpose died two and a half years ago. I felt so lost without him this entire time. I have adjusted. Now I am retired and have a
new job.
We grew old together. I became worn. The barcode barely worked and
the signature rubbed off. Black smudges
have made the yellow fade where I was worn while resting in his wallet. At some point, a section of myself snapped
off. I used to entertain him during the winter.
Weekly we traveled to pick up the rectangular objects he loved so much,
books.
After he died, I sat on a counter for a while
until she spotted me. With love she
picked me up and rubbed her fingers on my smooth surface. I saw her smile, a sad smile. She missed him
too. I knew she wanted to keep me. I
hoped to go with her and see her smile without the sadness.
Now I sit on the stand of her computer monitor. She looks down at me lovingly as she writes
for her blog or her latest fictional creation.
We both miss him, but our memories are those of love and fondness. I
give her comfort and, I hope, a little push to keep creating. I will never help him get a book again, but I
hope to help her get one in a different way.
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