Mom’s Desk

moms-deskI said I didn’t want the desk. Didn’t need it as a reminder of all the chaos of growing up as a child. We’d moved so often, left so much behind; friends, family, an old piano that mother loved.

As we went through mother’s apartment, sorting this, that, and the other, it called to me. “Please don’t leave me! We need each other. You mother pictured you sitting at me and writing. I’m old, but I’m still useful.”

I remembered after Dad died, I gave my mother a job to do. “Write!” I said, handing her small tablets and pens. “Write whatever you want. Dad’s not here to read and condemn your work. It’s your time now!

And write she did, producing hundreds of beautiful poems filled with memories and love. She left those to us to enjoy and share.

Now, as I sit at my desk in a cozy corner of my real life office, I feel inspired to write. It’s as though, from the very oak it’s made of, the desk says, “Write. Write whatever you want!”

 

 

 

 

 

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