As a child, I was fascinated with my mom’s desk. It was a refractory table that was part of our living room. I was usually the first one awake at my house and I would sit in her seat and pretend to type on her typewriter or get out one of her legal notepads and […]

As a child, I was fascinated with my mom’s desk. It was a refractory table that was part of our living room. I was usually the first one awake at my house and I would sit in her seat and pretend to type on her typewriter or get out one of her legal notepads and start “taking notes” early most Saturday mornings — always with one of the same fine felt tip pens that filled a handmade pottery cup on her desk. I’d watch her early in the morning before school, working on her books, with her green ruler out, going over each line to check for mistakes before turning her work into her editor. After school, I’d sometimes go to her office, where I had a fort under her desk. Really, I was just emulating what she had on her own desk, in my fort, to try to be just like her. It was more than that, though. More than just her desk where she wrote from. It was the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the wall. The wingback chairs that sat in front of the fireplace, power clashing in the best way. One was a blue gingham and the other was mauve, grey and maroon in a British fabric pattern I’ve yet to ever see again. She had a delicate shell lamp next to the front door and brass...