From the diary of Monica Tsai, backed up on five servers spanning three continents

August 24, 2018 (2018-08-24T14:50:05.327700)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts. United States of America (42.3721865,71.1117091)

Lots to process today. Pencils, EMBRS, Louise. All things that were not in my life a year ago, and which bombard me now.

It all started a few days ago when grandmother forgot she’d already prepared a batch of lion’s head meatballs and so we ended up with eight extras.

“Some perks to your forgetfulness,” grandfather said cheerily. Grandmother frowned the whole meal.

I asked if I could send some to a friend. I had planned to make them myself, but the ones grandmother prepared would be even better. I had already looked into the frozen packaging options.

“Sending to Stacy? Or Alex?” grandfather asked. Once again, he showed off his perfect memory for the names of any friends, even if they were people I had mentioned only once. I think he wanted to support the endeavor in any way he could. It was sweet, even if it made me wince. Stacy had been a high school acquaintance. We lost touch after graduation. She stopped hanging out with me once there were no more homework assignments to copy from.

“Louise,” I clarified. “The one who posted that picture of Meng.”

Grandmother looked at me thoughtfully. Then she put down her chopsticks and asked if I was ready to learn.

We went to grandfather’s office and sat at opposite sides of his desk, which was really an outdoor table they had found on the curb decades ago. Grandmother had two pencils with her. The first was a familiar yellow, the type I had grown up with, simple and topped with a pink eraser. The second was the black of the Phoenix Pencil Company, dark and alluring.

She had me sharpen them both and write with them. The difference was clear. While the yellow one was easy and comfortable, the black one was more than comfortable; it made my hand glide. Still, it didn’t seem that special, more like a nice-to-have. The yellow one had served me perfectly well all through school. The black might be ideal for an artist like grandmother, but for me it didn’t seem necessary, not when pens and computers exist.

Then she hit both pencils against the table and asked me to sharpen them again. The black one sharpened beautifully. But as I sharpened the yellow, a segment of the lead slipped out. I looked down the pencil point into the dark hollow.

“It’s a bad heart inside,” she explained. The bit of lead had rolled out on the desk. She flicked it away. “Shatters inside as soon as it drops. That doesn’t happen to our pencils.”