In her last decade of life, my mother spent many pleasant hours at her single pedestal oak roll-top desk. When Mom took a seat there to write a note or read a letter, she looked like the Queen doing her correspondence. Some of her favourite things lay at her fingertips. I still have cards and notes she penned there. 鈥淗er little empire,鈥� my brother called the antique reproduction.
Mom asked me several times if I would take the desk when she 鈥渄idn鈥檛 need it anymore.鈥� She seemed to think that the writer in the family should have it. But we lived two provinces away. Though its many nooks and crannies enchanted me, and I especially liked how the hood covered clutter, I knew the distance between us dictated a refusal.
During a phone call, only months before she died at 95, Mom asked again. 鈥淲ould you like to have my desk, Kathleen?鈥�
鈥淥h, Mom. I love your desk. But how would we get it over the mountains?鈥�
She sighed. 鈥淲ell, no one else wants it, either.鈥� It bothered her that something so special to her may leave the family.
When my parents moved into a nursing home, my sister Beverly, while clearing out their apartment, called to ask about the desk herself. I would have refused again, but the Preacher nudged me. 鈥淪ay yes, Hon. We鈥檒l find a way to get it home.鈥�
Only weeks later, Mom had a heart attack and a stroke. I flew to be with her for her final time on earth. Three unforgettable days, girding soul and spirit for an eternal journey 鈥� hers to make, our family鈥檚 to farewell.
鈥淚鈥檒l take your desk, Mom,鈥� I said one afternoon, during one of our final conversations.
She smiled. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 GOOD.鈥�
I had peeked inside the desk often on my visits. Mom had filled its many compartments with pretty things: fancy boxes, favourite cards for and from others, delicate stationery, wee ornaments, calligraphy markers, flower stickers, even serviettes she liked (a few lightly used).
鈥淏everly cleared it out already,鈥� I said. 鈥淣ow she knows your secrets.鈥�
Mom giggled. Spread her empty hands. 鈥淚 have no secrets.鈥�
Before I left one evening, I bent to kiss her cheek. 鈥淚鈥檒l see you in the morning,鈥� I said, squeezing her hand. But by morning, she had slipped away, postponing our reunion until either Jesus returns or I follow her.
Eight months later, the desk rode safely over the mountains. We put it in my office, but without Mom鈥檚 pretty things it looked lonely. A gorgeous hunk of wood, I thought, dusting its drawers. Just鈥� hollow. Nothing to remind me of her.
That鈥檚 when I found the tiny irregularly-shaped scrap of white paper. I prepared to toss it, but flipped it over instead. An exquisite pink rose sticker lay in my palm. Her favourite flower, her favourite colour. A gift from the Queen.
The sticker stayed. Every time I see it, I thank God... and hear her voice. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 good鈥︹��
