Something I have just remembered.

A friend of mine has a blog in which he just wrote a piece about being bitten by ants. Reading his post brought back a very strong memory for me, so strong that I once again felt the disappointment and longing from that day.

I was in Primary school, which means that I was younger than 13, perhaps as young as 9. We went on a school trip. I don't remember where or what for. I know we were packed into a combi bus and there was no aircon. The bus was very hot and very loud and all the kids were in high spirits. We stopped on the side of the road, and again, I don't know why. I do remember very clearly that there were some clouds in the sky but not enough to soften the glare from the sun. I was one of the last people to get back on the bus and while I was waiting I felt first one, and then a few, and then many tiny, incredibly painful pricks, all over my legs. I panicked, not knowing what it was and flailed about, jumping up and down. It hastened my getting on the bus considerably and it took some time to find all the red ants that had bitten me and were stuck in my socks etc.

Of course the bites are not where the disappointment and longing come from. I think the things in life I coveted most was stationary. I have always been a stationary fiend but stationary is something you get for needs, not wants. Shortly before the school field trip my Mom had bought me a set of sparkly, shiny, multi-coloured pens. I loved those pens. I kept them close to me and I used them judiciously to make them last. These kinds of pens abound now that I am an adult and I have bought many since then, but none have meant as much to me those did. Somehow, those pens made me feel special to my Mom. She is also a stationary fiend and there is no question as to where my adoration of the stuff comes from. Pencils, long and sharp, writing paper with kittens and flowers on it, cool to the ball of your hand and pens that feel weighty, where the ink slides out onto the page so that words come smoothly from your mind.

To return to my story; when I had divested my socks of ants and the bites were calming down, I realised that my pens had fallen out of my pocket. All of them. It was my own fault for overreacting and I was devastated. I recall the feeling SO clearly. Everyone on the bus was still loud, the sun was still hot and I was miserable. I did not want to cry, I was beyond that, I was incomprehensibly disappointed. My lovely pens were gone and there was no way that we were going back for them. I would not even ask. I think the worst part was knowing in the back of my mind that my Mom had enjoyed giving me the pens. I doubt that she would now recall it, and even then they were never mentioned after she gave them to me. I did not say anything about the pens being missing to anyone, it was too petty, and at that age - how would I explain - they were just pens.

Like a poppy seed stuck between two teeth, I have returned to this memory again and again in my life and wondered did someone find the pens? The next people to pull over? Did they dessicate, fade and die? Will I ever find a set with gold stars on them that writes quite like that, and feels as precious?