by José Faus
On the fiftieth year of his life
Jose Calderon buys a set
of black moleskin notebooks
a quill relic pen
and a set of professional calligraphy inks
He climbs the three sets of stairs
to the attic newly converted
into a writing garret
He sits at the desk near the open window
facing out onto the street below
and dutifully removes the plastic foil
from the pack of notebooks
He arranges them on the sparse desk
opens the first page and creases it back
laying it flat on the table top
He dips the quill into the inkwell
and sets about to write
the profound arc of his life
Twenty minutes later
the ink dried on the nib of the pen
he moves away from profundity
and searches the significant achievements
that are his life’s narrative
An hour later
he ponders the absurd moments
that surely fill his fifty years
Two hours later
he watches the dogs
chase their tails in the neighbor’s yard
watches the squirrels jump into the streets
and at the slightest sound freeze and
turn in stutters before returning where they began
or proceeding to where they meant to go
He watches the play
of hundreds of swifts
diving off the power lines
marvels at the well played dance
of dips swoops and plunges
the orchestrated sudden stops and turns
a set of convulsing elastic bands
stretching and pulling away from a center
and springing back only to pull away again
An hour later he opens his eyes
and lifts his head from
the sweater covered arm
that has become his rest
He feels the webbing of the sweater
etched across his face
and sees the sun in its last descent
He looks at the blank pages
and begins to write
Seconds later the quill on its rest
he rises abruptly from the desk
walks to the door steps out
and closes it behind him
In the room on the desk
across the top of the page
a name written clearly
in block letters fades
in the dim evening light