Bequeathed More Than Appeared

Prompt for: April 30, 2016 (fyn)
Subject or Theme: You have been bequeathed an antique schoolmaster's desk from your Great-great Uncle Seymore Z. FitzSimmons. You have never even heard of him, but the desk arrives and now sits taking up a great deal of space in your living room. It is made of mahogany, weighs a ton and has many, many small drawers, nooks, cubby-holes and ... you discover a secret drawer. What's inside? Note: (Schoolmaster's desks often had a well on one side, covered by a slanting surface that served as a lectern from which the teacher would pontificate on the lesson of the day.)

Words to use: ink, skeleton, must
Forbidden words: secret, antique, inside,


Minimum 30 lines, rhyming or not. Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.

Bequeathed More Than Appeared


Great-great Uncle Seymore Z. FitzSimmons,
having survived to the venerable age of one hundred and four,
being born in 1898 and passing in 2002,
left me his desk. Apparently, it took fourteen years for his attorneys
to find me. (I do move a lot and my name has changed again.)
I didn't know him, I didn't even know
of him, yet, it seems, he knew me or, at least, of me.

So here sits his desk, glowing mahogany wood,
distressed in places like the second lowest drawer on the left
where numerous horizontal scratches mar mellowed wood --
the toe of his boot, perhaps?
I can almost hear it tap-tap-tapping while he waits
for dim-witted student to answer philosophical questions
on the merits of Athena's Shield or Aristotle's 'Unanswered Question.'
Beyond vast writing surface, four small, locked drawers support a shelf for books,
or maybe, my monitor would just fit. Center drawer, four more drawers on each side.
(Each with a keyhole, but these are unlocked.)
Opening the center drawer reveals a blackened silver ring of fifteen tarnished skeleton keys.

Even the slanted lectern locks, protecting end of term essays or a gradebook
or, possibly, merely, his lunch. Finding the right key, it opens to reveal
dark, musty space, old grade book full of spidery writing, dated
April something or other, 1931. Most of the writing is faded, illegible.
I decipher that Barret, Robert T. must have loved mathematics,
did poorly in grammar. Carstairs, Elija M. did well in everything,
and Matenfield, Elroy B. may never have graduated.

Side drawers are all empty, but the bottom right-hand one is stuck closed.
Center drawer has built in slots for pens and pencils, chalk.
Quill pen with turkey feather
lies with dented, golden Cross pen, a 1943 steel Lincoln penny,
rounded disk, WWI version of his dog tag.
Small drawers up top empty except for one that has a faded photograph
of him and my grand-mother (on my father's side) along with
the rest of their eleven brothers and sisters. Leastwise, now I know
familial connection. Don't know why I'd never met any of all those
great-aunts and uncles. Sad. A whole sprawling mass of humanity
that I'd never known. Makes me wonder, how he knew me, or of me.

Linen dishrag and a bottle of Murphy's Oil Soap, elbow grease and time.
Clean and polish, swipe and rub. Knobs and pulls removed and soaked in Brasso,
then polished, buffed, replaced; now gleaming. Inkwell atop the 'shelf' of the well
once more being used for original purpose.
No way the desk can go through the narrow door to my office. Yet the couch
will fit. Room switch in progress. Now to get unstuck that troublesome
bottom drawer. Each section, compartment unique, no getting to one
from the other. Long barreled flathead screwdriver works drawer to wiggle side to side.
I know it is 'unlocked' yet find the correct key to lock, unlock.
A click and the drawer is loose.

Empty. Almost disappointed until I realize this drawer is shorter than its mates.
Flashlight in hand, on hands and knees, I peer deep. Metallic glint.
Another keyhole. For the fifteenth key that had made no sense.
Turning and pulling, a short drawer, more a box, really, emerged from that bottom slot.
Wooden lid fit snugly. I shook the box and there was a slight sound!
Placing the box on the desk, I opened the lid to find
an ivory colored envelope with my maiden name written in that same spidery script.

My dearest Robin,
You know me not, our family's having traveled disparate paths
over the decades, although I wish it hadn't been thus. I tried to keep
track of all the nieces and nephews, grands and great-grands, but
many were lost in the cracks of time. Found you through an article
about your poetry and your love of the written word in 1970.

Followed you then, over the years finding odd bits of published poetry,
short stories. I traveled to Saginaw, Michigan, watched you graduate
first in your class with your bachelor's degrees; all three.
Forgive this old man for not coming forth that day, but it was yours.
But I watched and was proud. Something about teachers, I suppose,
that while all students are special, those that excel shine a bit brighter.

You and your children were bright lights that day. I knew
in that moment, I would, one day, leave you my desk, just
as, I knew, you'd find this letter. I hope you write your novels,
Perhaps, you will write them at this desk. I hope you will.

And it was signed: Your Great-great Uncle Seymore Z. FitzSimmons

I did and I have. I like to think he knows.