I had passed there it on the shelf countless times before, not giving it a second thought. Why I did a double-take and stopped in my tracks now, I don't know. Maybe it was the realization that this, which used to by my pride and joy, had been reduced to free housing for dust and cobwebs.
I blew the dust away, Indiana Jones style. Its colors had faded long ago, rust was present on the edges. I fingered it for the first time in a long time; it was amazing how something so familiar could feel so strange. It felt so off and awkward in my hands, I almost forgot how to use it. It was definitely going to need some work before it could see the light of day.
Why did I stop? Why did I put it on the shelf in the first place? What was so bad that I gave this up and forgot everything I had put into it to make it what it was? Sure I had nicked fingers, created bruises and scratched myself using this, but wounds will heal. The experiences and the memories were worth the pain. The satisfaction of successfully wielding this was lost. Suddenly, it mattered. It was no longer cold; it was warm from holding it so tightly, and the name was even visible on the front. It felt alive in my hands, awakened from its dark coma. A smile crept across my lips.
