Day 15: The Little Roll Top Desk

I would stare into the gap between the desk and my bed. Sometimes that was how I got to sleep. Sometimes I woke up there, contorted, fallen in. It was small and brown, and I had my own drawer, which made a chalky sound when I opened it, and the top would screetch like bad brakes. tuff got crammed in there.

I don't remember if there was a chair. There isn't anymore. The chair has died.

The desk had a smell, too, like pennies and broken pencils with no leds.

Maybe they got rid of the chair so I wouldn't bump my head when I fell out of bed.

They loved me. The desk heard the prayers we recited every night. It watched as he kissed us and she sorted laundry.

What did she sit on when she sorted laundry?

Laundry was often found jammed under the rolled top. A sock, my plans, another sock. I had lots of plans, all of them homes. The desk is the last piece of furniture left from the old house.

No chair has made it as far.

It sits in the hall which leads to empty rooms. It is too small for anywhere else. Fifteen yeras ago, I needed a pencil. I opened my drawer, and there was no sound, no smell, no pencil. Just a roll of wallpaper border, ugly stuff. I wonder if they have been looking for it. I never opened that drawer again. I don't think anyone has. Mostly I don't think about that little desk, but I am tonight. I still have plans. They still keep me up at night. I still fall into cracks.