I see you sitting there. At that little white desk you love so much. I remember when you bought it at a garage sale where it cost $30 but you bartered it down to $15 because of the poor condition.
“This will be my writing desk”, you said to me. I remember I had laughed and I had laughed again when you published a novel that you wrote at that very desk. That time I had thrown my head back and laughed with you rejoicing at your accomplishments. And how proud I was. You had accomplished your life’s work and it was followed soon after by 3 other life’s works.
You dedicated each to me and I was grateful but I remember telling you that it was unnecessary because I hadn’t done anything to help. I said you should dedicate it to your pen, paper and typewriter. You laughed which you did often and wouldn’t hear any of it.
Your laugh was often the solitary thing in the world that brought me joy and shook me out of my constant detachment from the world. I often was so far in my head that I didn’t see when you walked in the room and sat down next to me staring.
I was the same with books. I would get lost in them. All kinds of books too. Fiction, Non-fiction, mystery, novels, small short books, and long gigantic books. It didn’t matter to me. I would even read signs, pamphlets, and brochures. You called me a bibliophile.
My favorite books were yours. I read them over and over again. I remember you had said they were novels about me. I had countered and told you that they would only be about me if I was a princess who fought dragons. You told me I was and we laughed together.
I asked about your writing and you suggested that I try writing something of my own. I couldn’t think of anything but you said an idea would come along. I had been meaning to write something for a while now.
So this is me trying it out.
I thought for hours and hours about what I should write and every time it comes back around to you and your little white desk. So there was my idea. You were right, but this isn't like your stories.
This is my favorite memory of you; sitting at that desk slaving away to pour your ideas down on a page. You sitting at that desk pondering over your next idea. You finishing the last words of your first novel and setting the pen down while leaning back in the chair and running your hands through your hair, sighing. Us sitting at that same desk eating fancy candies and drinking champagne, celebrating your book. This is about all of that but there’s more.
This is still even more different than most rambling writer’s words. This is a letter from the dead. My last will and testament: revised. I tried to write something and I found something along the way. I wish I had more time to write. I wish I had more time for other things too.
More time for you. The one regret in my life was leaving you, far too early. I saw how sad it made you. It’s why I see you sitting at that dearly loved little white desk writing furiously, a bottle in your other hand and tear streaming down your face. I’m standing behind you and I put my hand on your shoulder. I see you relax. You pause in your writing and set the bottle down on the floor next to you. I see you wipe the tears from your eyes while taking a breath. I see you almost smile. You begin writing again except now you are writing slower and more relaxed. You look almost at ease.