The Story of a Desk

Ten years ago, when I left my parents' house, I left my desk behind.
It was a wooden desk my father, a carpenter, made for me when I started elementary school.
It was the desk where I drew manga to my heart's content, dreaming of becoming a manga artist.

When I started living with my husband, we bought stylish desks with glass tops in different colors.
My husband built Gunpla models, and I studied for certifications or occasionally drew pictures. By then, my dreams had already been shattered.

It's not that I want to draw manga again.
My father, who made the desk for me, passed away three years ago.
Recently, for some reason, I felt an irresistible urge to bring home that desk, which had been fading by the window at my parents' house.
Why is that?
I wonder why.

I called my mother to say I would pick up the desk next Saturday, but then I caught a cold and ran a fever that Saturday.
I told her I would definitely come get it the following week, and even though it was drizzling,
I folded down the back seat of my compact car,
measured the desk with a tape measure just to be sure it would fit,
and finally came to pick up the desk that had been relegated to a stand for flower vases by the window.

"Let's go home together."
I didn't just whisper it in my heart; I actually said it out loud.
I was going to take it home anyway, so it didn't matter that there was no reply.
When I wiped it down with a damp cloth before loading it into the car,
the towel turned brown.
No matter how many times I wiped it, it kept turning brown. It didn't seem to be just dirt.
When I looked it up on my smartphone, it said wooden furniture can lose its color,
and that it's good to apply olive oil or beeswax.
I'll give it some maintenance when I get home.

And so, my desk arrived in my usual room.
As I sat on the sofa and gazed at it,
I remembered my aunt saying at a memorial service that she was surprised at how tidy Tokuko's desk always was.
I think she was talking about something from about 20 years ago.
My manga drawing tools and reference materials,
everything I needed was within reach, like in an airplane cockpit.
I really felt like I could fly anywhere.
It was fun. It was incredibly fun.

The next holiday, I tried applying beeswax.
The brown deepened, and it returned to that nostalgic color.
It went back to the color of that desk from when I used to draw so much.
See, it's a nice color now, isn't it?
My husband said, "I can't tell."
I want to tell someone, it's back, it's finally back!
Welcome home!!

While I was preparing dinner, my four-year-old son was drawing pictures at my desk.
He had drawn pictures of his favorite trucks on copy paper.
There were sheets of paper packed all over the desk. They were all pictures of trucks.
Having this desk makes you want to draw something, doesn't it?
I set up another chair opposite my desk chair.
So that my son can sit there whenever he wants.

Perhaps, for these past 10 years,
somewhere in my heart, I had been wanting to see this desk.
But back then, I wanted to change everything, so I used moving as an excuse to replace the desk that had been such a big part of my life.
The stylish glass-topped desk was nice too, but
the glass was cold, and I didn't like the 'clack' sound it made whenever my stationery hit it.
Even though I had bought it because I admired it.
I had thought about buying a new wooden desk.
But that didn't feel right either.
It's covered in scratches, and the cup rings won't go away, so
why do I like this one so much?
Is it because I think of it as a memento of my father?
Is it because I have so many memories of drawing at it?

Before I know it, I'm at the desk even when I'm not doing anything in particular.
I sit there wondering where to drink my coffee.
Maybe it's just comfortable.
Is this what they call my place?
Was this where I wanted to return to?
But why was I finally able to allow myself to return here?

My son came over and sat opposite me.
He was holding origami paper in his hands.
He was crying because he said there was no truck in the folding instructions on the back of the package.
When I looked it up on my smartphone, I found how to fold a truck.
I didn't know you could make trucks; that's interesting.
I helped him with the parts he couldn't fold well,
and for the parts to cut with scissors, I let him cut without worrying if he went off the fold line.
When we folded the tire parts a little and flipped them over,
the truck was finished.
Making 'vroom vroom' sounds as he drove the origami truck,
my son became happy.
The teenage me never imagined that a day would come when I would play with my own child at this desk.

It's fun.
Maybe my son reminded me of the joy of playing.
Maybe that's why I was able to decide to go pick up the desk.
I hope I can make more happy memories at this desk.
While maintaining it with beeswax from time to time,
let's live together forever.

Who should I tell this story to?
Maybe I'll try writing it on note,
The Story of a Desk.