At ten, I yearn to begin my grown-up life. Daddy hauls the old maple desk from the basement into my bedroom. I’ve learned its fancy name: escritoire. Open side shelves, a pull-down writing surface, a cabinet with doors to hide important mysteries. I fill the inner cubbyholes with colouring pencils. Tuck away my treasures inside the cabinet: a collection of smooth, shiny pebbles; a miniature orange-haired troll; four silver dollars. Line up my Nancy Drew books on the right-hand shelves. And leave the left-hand ones open, to arrange bits and bobs in a three-story apartment for my Barbie doll.
Karen Zey is a CNF writer, a part-time teacher, and a full-time student of life. She loves micromemoir and a cuppa London Fog tea.