The desk provided me with endless hours of fascination when I was a young child. Looking at it now, I recognize it’s rich patina as one particular to most everything having taken up residence at my parent’s house-age and nicotine. The varnish is worn away behind each smooth curved handle.  There are a few shallow scratches across the top of it. It looks naked and exposed without the desk mat, gooseneck lamp, pipe holder and ceramic naked lady mug I made for my father, taking up residence on it’s surface.

Upon opening the drawers, I am surprised to find belongings of my own filling them, instead of what my habituated eyes are expecting to see...discarded keys, bills, ink stamps, screwdrivers, GE memo pads, 8mm movie canisters, Zippo lighters in various states of repair and flints, a handgun in a long forgotten toy holster, maps, a chemists scale and pouches of Borkum Riff.

 The smell of the pipe tobacco is a ghost that reliably escapes from it’s long, thin, center drawer coffin. It hangs hauntingly in the air as it always has and I fervently hope always will.