The Desk She Called Home

It was rosewood, she thought.
She was never told different.
Yes, rosewood, engraved
With its elegant etchings,
And its ornate garnish.
For hours she would follow
All those winding roads it made,
Memorizing every twist and turn.
She would lose herself in its carvings,
A finger meandering aimlessly along
Until the path would end with a flair.

It was her childhood fortress,
A refuge of her imagination,
And her rainy day playground.
The place where she'd lay hidden
When no one else was there,
Her feet splayed wide against the roof
Of its gaping wooden mouth.

It was her eavesdropping confidant,
Listening intently to every trouble
When she would run tear-stricken
Into that office of her father's.
It overheard her every problem,
Took in every shaking sob or worry.
With bated breath it nodded along
In agreement with each careful comfort
That her father spoke aloud.

It was once her grandmother's desk
Countless years before,
And her grandmother's mother's
Even longer before that.
It outlived several generations,
Breathing its history with every creak.
And when the time did deem her well
Her father failed to break the chain.

It was her tutor in times of need,
Holding heavy texts before her
As she read line after line
Well into the quiet of night,
Lit only by the lamp on its temple.
Physics, mathematics, history:
It taught her a great deal;
Far more than its cousins at school.

And when the time at last arrived
It went with her to college,
The only true companion brought.
And then the nights were longer,
And yet still it stayed awake,
In vigil for the both of them.

It was her busy place
In the many years that followed
After she found a house of her own,
Carrying pieces and piles of paper
On broad and steadfast shoulders,
Weathering splotches of makeup
And at times a fresh new kind of tears
It hadn't seen when she was young.

It was where she spent her mornings
Busily typing through her yawning eyes,
Occasionally stopping to take a sip
From a steaming mug of coffee,
Blowing it cool with raspberry lips;
Or perhaps to read the Sunday paper,
But often only the funnies
As the headlines never seemed to tell
The 'happily ever afters'.

It was even her bed at times,
A pillow where she'd rest her head
When it was far too late to type
And her eyes were fighting off the throws
That relentlessly came with lack of sleep,
Before finally surrendering to serene slumber.

It was by her side at times of joy
And was with her during spouts of sorrow:
Letters of commendation
That brought starlight to her eyes,
And calls that left her speechless
With only shaking sobs in tow.
It was there when she received the news
That father left to join her mother
In a place she couldn’t reach
No matter how long she called his name.

It was the desk she called home,
Always right there by her side
Through both the good and the bad,
The beginnings and the ends.
She never spoke a word of thanks,
But her soft smile and tender touch
Were the only thanks it needed.
In a sense it was the strongest friend
She never knew she had.

At least, it was all of those things...
But not anymore.

The fire had made sure of that;
That fire that had left her homeless
In far more ways than one.
In her mind she’d often picture
Those ravenous flames all lapping up,
Lashing one by one in tumult
At the brittle, weeping wood
As it cried for her help to no avail.

Now the desk was nothing more
Than four brass knobs, all warped and bent,
Tucked away in a flimsy shoebox
Huddled beneath her solemn arm
As she stared across the ashes
Where her house once proudly stood.
And so, for the first time
In the memory of her life
She felt truly without home.