Grrrr…grrrr…grrrr. I love sharpening pencils, sharpening pencils at the end of the day. I love the sound. I love the satisfaction of its routine. When day is done, as I am preparing to head home, I straighten my desk, putting in order all the papers and books. I put the Post-its into the drawer; slide opened books back into their homes in the bookcase; clink the stray paper clips into my clay bowl, a clay bowl created by my long-grown, then, first grade daughter. Its hand rolled coils, green and turquoise, snake around into the shape of a leaning cone. Push the shutdown button, click the laptop shut. Push the chair, with its black polyester cushion, neatly under the golden oak desk. I grab my black leather purse and lunchbox, orange and empty, and place them on the upholstered blue chair. There they tarry, ready to be clutched as I saunter out the door. Then, last of all, my hand gathers all the used pencils, in various states of dullness and grrrr…grrrr…grrrr. Sharpening pencils. Each, pointy and new, waiting to be used, are slipped into the top drawer and tucked in bed on the curved, wooden pencil tray. They, like I, are ready for repose, ready to start a new day, sharpened and refreshed. I love sharpening pencils.