Crayons are a delight, are they not? So many things about them are so memorable, so crayon-like in a way that nothing else is.
Their smell is completely recognizable: paper-ey with a good whiff of wax.
Their feel in the fingers, dependable. Wrapper sliding under digits, shavings of brightly-colored pigment determinedly sticking to your cuticles for the rest of the day.
Crayon issues: That frustrating point at which the stick has simply gotten too short and is no fun at all to draw with anymore, and the stump gets lost in the recesses of the cardboard box.
Also, the five times your dog ate a crayon or two, and walks got more . . . colorful . . . for a day.
The satisfaction of a paper-draped table and a mug of crayons waiting to entertain you at a restaurant, when otherwise you’d be distracted from conversation by your grumbling tummy.
The puzzlement of noting the various color names, and wondering what the heck that one means, and why the heck they chose to name it that.
How proud you feel when, after returning from a long crayon-hiatus (a crayatus?) your masterpiece proves that you have not lost your skill, but rather, your artistic prowess has matured with the years.
Crayons are good stuff. They make me joyful.
Tell me: What’s floating your boat today?