Today, my dad’s old desk went to the dump.

An unremarkable pine desk flecked with four decades of neutral paint speckled on ill-covered edges and ankles.

I’ve lugged it around with me for over 20 years. At least ten different homes. Growing evermore rickety with each move.

Nails protruding from the more embattled end meant it posed a hazard to our two year old.

A decision was made. The disposal swift.

My dad wrote his dissertation at that desk, while watching me and my sister play in the garden.

“No need to keep it when I have the memories still”, he said.

Rather more sentimental, I kept back the drawer from the desk. I couldn’t quite bear to part with it entirely.

I wrote my degree from that desk, too.

Now it’s sitting in darkness, in the dump, mute and broken.

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