by Marti Hurst
“Don’t let the kids get
to you,” my husband said, placing his arm around my shoulder.
Stepping into the room, I glanced
around. Calmness replaced dread. My father’s desk sat next to the window, an unfinished story scattered across its worn
This room was my haven, a private
Eden. I drew strength from this room.
My daughter had been nagging me to
modernize. She didn’t understand that I like things familiar, comfortable, natural. I abhor change. She was due in ten
minutes; I knew the argument would continue.
“Why do young people want to change things?” I asked, leaning
against his shoulder.
“Because they’re young.”
He laughed. “Remember Kent State? We wanted change too. Put your foot down. Stand up to her! You’re the parent—take control and end this.
She’s here,” he whispered when the front door slammed.
“Coward," I hissed as he disappeared
around the corner leaving me alone to deal with our daughter.
“In my writing room!”
“Have you made up your mind?
I’m on my way to the store and can get what we need while I’m there. I’ll do it for you.”
My hand caressed the desk’s
satiny surface, its patina softened by age. Time had not changed it—just dulled the brilliance it once had.
like it the way it is.”
"Mom! It’s old-fashioned. The
color is dull,” my daughter declared, leaning against the battered desk. “We could do it in a mahogany shade,
or something as dark as walnut.”
She doesn't understand. Beauty
is in the eye of the beholder; change isn’t always for the best, with age comes dignity, grace.
“You’re kidding! You’re
really not going to redo it?” she asked.
I reached up and removed the rubber band that
tethered my grey hair into a ponytail. As it cascaded around my shoulders, I answered, “Forget it. I’m not dyeing
© Marti Hurst
Marti Hurst is a native of Oklahoma, USA. She and her husband operate a
convenience store and cattle ranch. Between children, grandchildren and business,
she can't devote the time she would like to her favorite hobbies: reading and writing.