The Between

I have developed an emotional attachment to a very old borrowed desk. I attempt to empty and clear it daily, to return it to its owner. As I sit writing at this beautiful desk, with its cubbies and drawers and the lovely line of it, I feel somehow connected. I wonder who used it, and what was written throughout the years. I am a dreamer so I imagine letters, professions of great affection, declarations of love, important meaningful communications to have been penned atop this very surface. And I, I have had the privilege of enjoying it.

It is a peculiar thing, beyond sentiment, how I attach such emotional value to inanimate objects. As though to extricate them from my life might also extricate the feelings I have associated with them. Just the thought of returning this desk seems to punctuate an ending. I can already anticipate an emptiness in the room, even if I fill the space with another piece of furniture. It’s as though it will leave an empty spot in my heart. I question shouldn’t I approach it as marking a beginning to something else? Yet I don’t. Day after day I say tomorrow, as though magically it will be easier tomorrow to break the bond. As though I will suddenly feel nothing.

This desk filled a need; filled a void. It added immense richness to my life; brought to me through it’s owner a wonderment of feelings I thought I’d never know again. It was the bridge, a connection of the space between there and here. Its presence holds, quite possibly, one of the most treasured parts of my life, to love again. Perhaps I have sought something tangible to represent that which is intangible. Unholdable. Unkeepable. Like air, something ever present but invisible and untouchable. Though I realize it is not mine, does not, can not belong to me, still parting is so very difficult. To let go is an act of faith that is seldom easy.

It will reunite at some point with its rightful owner. I’d hoped at one time the reunion would occur in this room, it in its current place, but it seems not to be. Though I thought I might pen a final letter professing great affection, declaring love, an important meaningful communication from this desk, I reluctantly release it without words. Beautiful things do not stay in our lives and we need to appreciate the moment while they are here.

About Lisette d. Johnson

Murder-Suicide Survivor, Mom, Writer, Speaker, Serial Volunteer in the Intimate Partner Violence and Sexual Assault Arena, Entrepreneur, &amp Friend. I survived, my kids survived, and I am here to tell the story.
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