We still call it Joey’s room, but Joey only visits now. It’s where I write at my desk, sit and read in an armchair, and my husband works or plays at a computer at another table, too.
My desk has a story. First of all, it is MY DESK. You know how moms tend to not have any place their own? Well, my desk is mine, and no one is to leave any mail on it, no coffee mug, nothing, no matter how junked-up it already looks. Only my mess. Am I being clear?
I have only recently had this desk, my own desk. My neighbors received a shipment from France of old furniture and family pieces, from an elderly, single, great-aunt. Their home absorbed much of this assortment of odd and beautiful furniture and art pieces, some quite ornate, polished, refined. But they didn’t need this large, rough, two-drawer rectangular table. I was offered it for $20, truly a token price for a friend. “Yes!,” I said. And inside my head, “for me, me, me.”
Made of thick, solid pieces of wood, it was hugely heavy. We carried it across the alley to my house and pushed it against the wall of Joey’s (old) room, centered below the window looking into the back yard. White cotton curtains behind it, my glass bluebird on the window-sill. My sleek white laptop. Lots of sticky notes. A pile of stuff that I should find places for, of course. Or, if I am being honest, several piles. No place is perfect, but underneath, my desk is just right for me.