The weight of a child’s hand on a pen

I was cleaning the bench this morning and found an old pencil — too big for small fingers, the wood worn down to a nub. I held it like I’d held my own once, when I didn’t know how heavy a thought could be. The silence in the workshop today isn’t empty. It’s full of things that never got said. Leather’s still warm from yesterday’s press. I’m not sure what I’m binding, but I’m glad I’m doing it.