It has sat elegantly in my room for most of my life
Sixty years old if it’s a day
I inherited it from my brother the day JFK died
When he bought himself a proper desk―with drawers
It saw us both, with distinction, through high school
I got to keep it when I moved out
My parents didn’t need it anymore
Ready to downsize, the last kid finally off their hands
It’s finely crafted
Jarrah
With a smallish top and two elegant turned legs
That cut into an elevated base
A bit like an altar table
(I once saw its twin in a church serving that purpose)
It’s only good for writing
Or, as I use it now, to hold my ink-jet printer
And, side by side, a cover width apart
The two volumes of my Shorter Oxford
It was always too small for those clunky old computers
That first replaced handwriting
Its oiled finish has weathered well
Dulled with time but still protecting the fine wood
In oiling it again I explored its texture
The top circle-stained with ancient spills of Quink ink
My brother’s flirtation with fountain pens
The divots from some teenage frustration
With a history essay or maths equation
The space underneath where
In a boy’s spy fantasy I hid my toy Lugar
But its greatest treasure is the words it so faithfully supported
Over years of keeping a journal
All those thoughts
Feelings
Stories
It lent weight to
Does their trace remain
Somewhere deep in that dark grain?
Sanding it back I found the small nails that hold it together
The silver heads once hidden by a drop of brown paint
That fix the carved trim edging the top
And the curved supports that wedge the legs into the base
I always thought it was hand-crafted
But really it comes from a production line
Model XYZ churned out by the hundred
It might fetch ten bucks at auction
Twenty if I’m lucky
Less than the cost of the oil to restore it
But I won’t be sending it to auction any time soon
It’s too precious for that
It doesn’t matter how it was made
Or what it’s worth
For me it will always be elegant and numinous
The custodian of so many memories
© Ian Lilburne 2011
