My father wrote in beautiful, elegant strokes with care and patience. His Parker ink pen was a treasure he stored like nothing else he owned.
When he opened that case and swapped the empty ink cartridge for a full one, it was a ritual to behold. He handled that pen with a collector’s grace. Once it touched his small notebook, he wrote and wrote in Arabic and French with a wondrous movement as if each letter had to be delicately composed, each word strummed like a musical chord. His writing had the finesse of calligraphy with strokes drawn in intimate harmonious lines.
As a child, I was mesmerised by the sound of his pen as it landed on the page and by the sight of his hand as it moved in a peaceful chorus with his thoughts.