It calls to me. Sixty years have I possessed it, and never have we parted for long. As of late, I have noticed that without it within easy reach, I feel as if I am not quite myself. He says to leave it behind. Ridiculous. I cannot leave it – it is my own, he cannot make me. I do not want to leave it, I cannot, I won't! But then he does seem to know best. I must leave it, for our friendship's sake. I turn my palm slowly, savoring its cool surface against my skin for what he would have to be the last time. It calls, it cries, it screams! It calls me fool to let it pass from me, but I know that I must be rid of it for now. Too long I suppose I have had it; I am old and it is time for rest. It slips off my hand and falls clanging to the floor, landing as a dead weight. It moans and beseeches me to pick it up once more. I shall stand firm. I step out the door, the cool night air clearing my mind and my senses, and for all my years I feel fresh as I have not felt in a long time. Singing to myself, I set off down the road.

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