So we buried my Father this past Thursday. I am still processing everything, and I imagine, with time, I will feel the need to write about it all.
My sister and I had to empty his apartment out very quickly, so we didn’t have a lot of time to sit and reminisce over all his possessions.
I am not one to really hold onto things of the past, so I didn’t take much from his place. I did, however, take his desk.
I’m not sure where it came from. I am thinking he probably had it when he was first married. It was probably in the attic of the house I grew up in. I know it was not used in that house, and I think he maybe took it with him when he moved into his one-room apartment. I am not really sure. I never thought to ask where he got it from. But I liked the old-fashioned look to it, and with some refinishing, I think I can make it my own, yet somehow, keep a bit of my Father’s memory alive in it too.
I don’t really have a “writing desk.” I usually sit at a table and type on my laptop. But I now have a writing desk, and I hope to use it for a lot of writing in the future.