But the next year, my antique hunting parents found a beautiful little roll top desk that was just my size. Unfortunately, no one else was too interested in my narrative of a girl who ran away from home and ate lots of chocolate leeland cookies. It was made of oak and had a matching swivel chair. My first desk was a thing of wonder. I thought it had a fascinating plot. Sadly, Kindergarten ended and I had to part from my desk.

As I at that desk I could feel the words flowing from my number two pencil, and I could see the Great American Novel appearing on the page before me. It had three drawers on the right side, two little shelves and a skinny drawer under the roll top, and a secret little piece that slid out. From then on, each year at school I got a new desk, in a new room, with new things filling them, but none of them could compare to MY desk waiting for me.

We had a great year together, that desk and I.

Each time I pulled out its single drawer, it was like opening that fantastically shaped present under the Christmas tree I never knew exactly what I would find.