My father and myself used to take numerous trips across the country to his favourite Staples Office Supply shop.

When we approached, his rumbling growls of pure bliss became more and more louder.

He’d often grip the steering wheel before we entered, he’d always look at me and ask if I were ready.

I always was.

We’d make our way to the aisle where they kept the pens and pencils. We’d simply breeze past the pencils, and the cheap pens, past the rows of notebooks and binders, and we would find the executive, expensive pens with the thick ink cartridges.

His hand would shakily reach out to the 10 pack pen set, and he’d stroke it, as if he were touching a hot surface. Sometimes he forgot I was there.

I was always there, always watching. Learning. Finding out how to truly milk a pen. You see, milking a pen is an art. It’s an act that requires concentration and passion, and my father had those by the bucket.

He’d look around nervously and pull the pen out the pcket, removing the nib of the pen, and just flicking his tongue at the end, I watched as the ink lazily dribbled into his mouth, and when it did; I saw fireworks in his eyes.

After he died, we couldn’t visit Staples, it just wasn’t the same. But I like milking pens. Especially other people’s.

“I lost it! I’m a klutz!” I’d spout as the pen lender would ask for it back. It was always in my back pocket, and I caressed it always, just to make sure I hadn’t lost the beautiful instrument.

Once I’ve sucked enough ink out, I would carefully reattach the nib and kiss it before placing the lid back on.

I am an artist, and I will carry my father’s canvas with me as I go.

That is why I am who I am.

That is why I must milk pens