⏱ ~3 min reading
In September, my mother bought Artem a pencil case. Yellow, with a zipper, with compartments inside. The pencil case contains pencils, pens, an eraser, a ruler, and a sharpener with a container for shavings.
Artem brought the pencil case home. He sat down at the table. He laid everything out.
— Mom. And that's all for the whole year?
— Yes. Until June.
— What if something breaks?
Mom sat down next to me.
— Then you have to take care. Every thing likes to be respected. A pencil — so that it doesn't fall off the desk. An eraser — so that it doesn't lie around in a briefcase by itself. A ruler — so that it doesn't bend.
Artem nodded. He was a serious boy. If they said it, he would do it.
On the first day at school, Artem sharpened all the pencils the same way. Each one was sharp and even. He put them in the compartment in order. The yellow pencil was yellow on top. The red one was red.
"Listen, give me a pencil," Grisha asked at the next desk.
"Take it. Just give it back.".
Grisha took it. He drew something. He threw the pencil on the desk, with that clatter that happens when something is not valued. The tip broke.
"Grisha. Don't throw it. It's breaking.".
Grisha shrugged.
"It's a pencil. You'll buy a new one.".
Artem didn't say anything. He sharpened the pencil again — carefully, with gentle movements. He put it back in its place.
At home, Artem told his mother.
— Mom. And Grisha threw my pencil. And broke it.
Mom looked at him seriously.
"And don't give him the pencil again.".
"How is that? Friends.".
— A friend is also someone who protects yours. He may be kind, but if he doesn't know how to do something, explain it. If it doesn't matter, don't give it to him.
The next day, Artem told Hrytsky:
— Grish. Do you have your own pencils?
— Lost it somewhere.
"And mine are the shores. Otherwise I won't give it.".
Grisha looked. He wanted to laugh, but he saw that Artem was serious.
— Okay. I'll take care of it.
Days passed. Weeks. Artem sharpened his pencils once every three days. He always put the eraser in a special compartment. He didn't break the ruler on his knee, like some people do — he put it flat in his briefcase. He shook out the sharpener every evening over a bucket in the kitchen.
In December, Artem noticed that half of the class was without an eraser. Sofia's ruler was cracked in the middle. Grisha's pencils were as short as crumbs. And his pencil case was like new.
"Artem," Grisha asked during a break. "Why is everything still intact?"
— I'm taking care of it.
— And I can't.
"It's simple. Don't drop it. Don't chew on it. Don't put the pencil under your briefcase.".
Grisha thought about it. The following Monday, his mother bought him a new pencil case — and he wanted to try it.
In May, Artem had the same pencils in his pencil case as in September. Only they were a little shorter. The eraser was worn down by about a third. The ruler was intact. One pen was new—the lead had run out, and they replaced it at a store near the school.
"Mom," said Artem when he got home. "I thought I hadn't saved anything. But it turned out..."
— What happened?
— It turns out, I love my things.
Mom smiled.
— Artem. My dad and I haven't broken a single chair in the house in ten years. Do you know why?
— Why?
"Because we sit down slowly. Without a bump. The chair feels it too.".
Artem smiled. He didn't know whether he could hear the chair or not. But he liked to think he could.
💡 He who values protects.