To my desk at home,
It feels terrible to admit, but our relationship once straddled affair territory. You were a mistress, the “other desk,” if you will. I had desks at school\; my heart laid with them. We took tests and watched films. Occasionally, I even slept on them. Sure, the relationship I had was rather polygamous, but it was exclusive. Ever since the first day of school, I was paired with a desk in all of my classes, to be with one another until the end of eternity. But eternity was left openly wounded against the invisible enemy.
After hours with the school desks, I came home and worked with you, albeit briefly. There was no connection\; you were not assigned to my name like the desks at school. At home, I worked in my kitchen, on my bed, on the couch. I am not saying this to be harsh, but instead to juxtapose a forgotten life with our current situation, in which our fresh companionship poses a striking similarity to the honeymoon phase of homosapien marriages.
Every day we spend hours together. With you I practice rhetorical analysis, scribble math equations, listen to bubbly music, cry, stress and smile. When I partake in social Zooms, you sit beneath my friends, intently absorbing their conversations and laughter. With you I do it all, whereas I once did so little. You are my school and my home. You are my friend and my colleague. You were once just an object.
We remain together until it is time for bed. Our bedtime separation shatters my heart like no other. It feels as though I am abandoning you, but our morning reunion is worth the nighttime pain. The day begins, and so does the comfort of your company.
Desk, I am writing to you to express my intangible gratitude for you. Unlike any friend I have ever known, you are there—always. And you always have been, but I was blind and amiss. I thought I belonged at school, but it seems I was misled. I belong at home with you and your steady companionship. Even the governor told me so.
Thank you for waiting for me to find you.
Sincerely,
Nyomi Fox
