The Story Of The Peeled Pencil

I like wood. I like its pure form. I like its brown color that seems to pay homage to where it grew from. I like the dedication it needs from an artist or furniture maker to polish its roughness and enhance its beauty to its fullest. 

I like it so much that I spend time to peel pencils and remove their colored coating. It does not matter whether I get a cut from the blade (I use the disposable one for the razor) as long as I will get the smoothness I want.

My nephew saw me doing it one time. He entertained me with his stories and amused me with his never-ending questions about anything while I was peeling the pencil and he did that until I was done. Few days later, my aunt borrowed the same pencil because she forgot to bring one and she needed it as judge for the beauty contest in my place.

I am pretty possessive of my things, whether I bought them or they were given. If someone has to borrow them, they need to return them. And if I decide to give them away, it's only because someone want them so much, though it's painful to let them go. I can only hope that the new owner will take care of them the way I did. Often than not, I found them haphazardly tossed somewhere. Every time, it breaks my heart for the thoughtlessness, not realizing how I took care of them while they were in my possession. Having said that, my aunt did not return the pencil. Maybe she just forgot, but just the same, I lost it forever. In this case, it didn't really matter. It's just a pencil, I could peel another one.

I told my nephew about it the day after it was borrowed while we were in the terrace. He excused himself. When he came back, he brought a new pencil with him and a blade. I figured he would peel the pencil, so I volunteered to do it, fearing he would cut his finger. But he refused, and said he'd do it himself. So I just watched him. He firmly held the pencil with his little fingers and carefully, slowly worked it. I asked if he wanted the pencil like mine. He replied, "This is for you."

To replace the pencil I lost, apparently. I brought his labor of love with me when I went back to the city. 

My brother borrowed it. In the middle of drawing something, it broke in half. I was there and couldn't help but gasped and told him it was a gift from our nephew and told him the story. He stopped what he was doing, got up and rummaged for something in the drawer. He got a masking tape and then rolled it over the broken part. Instead of using it again, he put it in the jar, along with the other pens and pencils. 

It's the same pencil that's in the photo. You can see the rough and uneven peeling did by a seven year old and the masking tape rolled by a fifteen year old. And today, my sister used it for her drawing.

Sometimes, children understand more than the adults do. They know love, and value its importance in its simplest forms and take care of it (or the result of it) and see that it will go a long way. The beauty of innocence - understanding the obvious and accepting the simple.