Tomorrow, we are getting the rest of our things moved down from Chris’ parents place.

Things we haven’t seen in the two years since we have been here.

And how I long for their arrival now.

Whole boxes of favourite books, art journals, photo albums, scrapbooks.

The joyful flight bookcase will look so splendid with all these treasures nestled safely in its arms.

A beautiful wooden outdoor setting that my parents bought me for my 20th birthday.

An antique coffee table that we bought for $15. The one with golden curvy legs and a marble looking top, filled with happy memories and Saturday afternoon drives to the beach.

And… most importantly…

my writing desk.

The wooden one I have had since I was 12.

With four deep draws, and a light face inscribed with the etchings of my pen.

It is like an old friend to me, and I long for its arrival.

I long to sit at it again, and sprawl my hands, arms, head out over it. Touch my cheek to its clean, calming surface.

I know this desk like I know myself.

And it makes sense for me to be rejoined with it now I am living the dreams I dreamed at that desk.

I want my desk for me to draw at, paint at, type at, design at.

I want to continue my journeying, with my companion, my writing desk.