sketchbook stories: the green desk
We redecorated my bedroom when I was nine, new wallpaper like a disco jungle, green vines edged in metallic silver. Bookshelves crammed with Nancy Drews and encyclopedias—new volumes each month from the grocery store—and my little desk, painted the color of the limes I picked for margaritas years later from the tree in my California backyard.
I want to ask if she remembers the gaudiness. If she remembers ABBA on my portable record player, its fake denim design. I want to ask my mother all this and more, but she would not remember, and besides, she is gone.
Your newsletter is one of the highlights of my week. I always wait to read it until I have a block of time when I can absorb your words. I don't want to read it like it's a social media post or a regular email.
Your story this week has pushed me over the edge into a project I've had on my mind for a long time, but which kind of scares me.
I'm going to write a collection of letters to my parents, some addressed to both of them and some addressed just to my mom or just to my dad. Since they passed away three years ago, there will be no reply to these letters, thus the working title of the project will be "Unanswered Letters". I'm not sure what I want to capture or accomplish other than I often have a desire to ask them a question that they cannot answer.
Amie, your story got me hooked and I've subscribed. Looking forward to more reading delights.