My late grandmother always loved music. She was one of those community members who attended school musicals and recitals not just to see a relative perform, but routinely, for the sheer enjoyment. She sang in choirs in her younger days, and just plain sang in her older days. SodaBoy plays the guitar, and she would ask to him to play whenever we hosted family gatherings. She would nod and sway as he played, until unable to contain her joy, she would burst again into song. SodaBoy doesn't play sing-a-longs; he writes his own songs, primarily instrumental pieces. But Grammy never let that stop her. She would just vocalize a warbly hum to accompany the melody.
It was a year ago that Grammy died. The family convened in April for a memorial service, and to clean out her house. I ended up with a carload of items to store for a far-flung relation, from whom I have heard nothing in the interim. At the one year anniversary of her death, SodaBoy and I went into the basement and brought Grammy's desk upstairs. When the flip top is closed, the desk looks more like a dresser; the upper door is hinged and it folds open to create the writing surface. For as long as I can recall, it sat in her living room near the front door, holding letters and postage and money for the paperboy, carefully counted out in advance.
Now it sits in our back room, right next to the little piano I inherited from my great aunt, a very dear friend of my grandmother's. It makes me happy to reunite the two friends symbolically. It makes me happy to incorporate into our living space this personal item that once belonged to my grandmother, to see it every day and know that she saw it every day, too. And I think it would make Grammy happy, as well. The best part is that we are using the desk for storing various musical paraphernalia: the Pod, the mixer, the drum machine. Now I just have to hope Aunt FarAway continues forgetting that I am storing the desk for her.