I sit down to write at my new (old) writing desk and I am distracted by the imperfections in the wood. Before handing the man one of only four twenty dollar bills I have between today and the end of the month for gasoline, groceries and, apparently, the purchasing of antiques, he told me that he believed it was poplar or maple.
But what I see is glitter, pink and silver, pixie-slick thumbprints where the smallest hands could reach. Red paint and black and glue residue. A faintly edged circle is crossed by a constellation of pencil compass points, and I wonder at the purposeful destruction, what sort of child would stop there and not pepper the desk top over with holes. The name ‘Jaron’ is scratched twice into the wood. I think I’ll use it.
I put the desk in front of a window. It’s dark now but I wonder tomorrow what I’ll see, what this new space will warrant the page.