The pen grip that broke me today

I was watching a kid at the table—six, maybe seven—trying to write his name in cursive. Not the neat looping kind they teach now, but the messy, wobbly one where the letters lean like drunk tourists. He held the pen between thumb and forefinger, knuckles tight, jaw clenched. And then he stopped. Just froze. I didn’t say anything. But I remembered the first time I saw my own hand do that—same tension, same breath held like it was going to fall apart if I let go. It wasn’t about writing. It was about holding on. I still have that pen in a jar on my desk. The one I used when I wrote the letter th