Scribe

There's a letter inside this desk. Ink on linen paper. The envelope is sky blue, small and squarer then the impersonal business size. I have addressed the envelope, it sits on top of the flat unfolded letter. The letter sits on the glass writing area of the desk, the glass covers green felt and is held down by brass butterflies. Superman says its the kind of desk you'd do cocaine off but I sit with my ridiculous candle dipping my pen into the inkwell writing letters and dreams.

It belonged to my mother, it was the first lovely piece of furniture she ever bought. I love this desk. It used to sit in the small slanted space beneath the stairs, there was a room there for the desk, a lamp, a leather chair and an old ammunition box full then of family photographs. I don't know how it happened but the drawers are full of generations of stationery. Uncle Bingo's letter opener, Great Aunt Kathy's hole punch, Papa Slamma's pencil box, Grandfather's linen envelopes, my father's rubber stamp with his name and address. I remember when he had that stamp made just after we moved into the big two storey house, he ordered a stamp and built me a bike shed. I was proud of him and his stamp.

I keep meaning to fold the letter, to seal it shut with wax. I mean to affix a postage stamp and carry it carefully in my pocket. I mean to walk the seven hundred and three steps to the postbox and slide it in or maybe I'll pull the handle and place the letter on the little tray and watch it tumble as I let go of the handle, I haven't decided yet.

The letter has been there for one week and four days. It took me five days to decide to write the letter. This letter is proving to be problematic and I think this is because of all the other letters. The striped rectangular box in the cupboard next to my other desk, the square painted desk. The other letters are hand written, long and rambling. I used to wait for those letters. I used to hang my existence on the arrival of the next letter. I don't think it will happen again. I've snapped off the part of me that didn't breathe when his shadow crossed my mind but still I'm cautious. I'm counting the steps to the postbox and locking my desk before I sleep at night.

This letter is proving to be problematic.