I’ve got an old desk in my office. It’s covered in scratches, rings from coffee mugs, and countless old stains that set into the dark wood long before I was born. It’s a plain desk. A simple square top, three drawers on the left, and a tall cabinet on the right. It’s heavy as hell and a pain to move.

It was my grandpa’s desk.

My grandpa sat at his desk and wrote with a pen, and not much else. I’m not sure he ever learned how to type.

He used it when my dad was little, and then after he passed away it sat in our basement for a while. I’m not sure my dad wanted to use it. He was close with his father, and sometimes things like that make us too sad. But a grandson isn’t a son, and so now I use it.

Every day, I sit down in front of the old wood, set my black coffee to the right, open my la

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