Heirlooms
My desk at home, made of pine,
a solid and simple expanse of
beautifully stained wood, began
its life in the early 20th century
as a teacher's desk, a place to
plan lessons or grade papers. It
might not be mine now except
it was rescued from a local
school when my grandfather
who taught and was a principal
learned it was going to be thrown
away during a renovation, so he
took it home with him, and now
it is where I am writing this poem.
The chair in which I am sitting
is even older, a proper college
professor's chair, the Wabash
crest carved into the back rest,
now dark with patina, came from
my alma mater, where my father
learned as well, and where my
mother's father taught my father,
and this was my grandfather's
chair, retired from the basement
cafe in the student union where
the faculty met, and where, I
imagine, my grandfather held
court. And now this is where I sit.
My house is full of heirlooms
like these, artifacts passed along
to me to fill my utilitarian needs:
I have shelves for books, and
old post office drawers in which
I keep my pens. And a Hoosier
cabinet we've used as both a
changing table and a bar. And I
have that old rocking chair that
can pinch your fingers, but is a
comfortable place to think, and
a wrought iron lamp with a handy
ashtray in which to place a drink.
I am surrounded by all the worn
and perfect spaces in which my
good ancestors paused to rest
or worked long hours or stored
their tools or lost themselves to
thought, and even now, all this,
rich as it is with family history,
is put to use, reupholstered and
repurposed, and given meaning
because these things are useful,
because I have work to do, until
one day when I do not, and I pass
them along. And in that moment,
I will have served my purpose to
care for them until they find in you,
some new and worthy work to do.
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