They sent the other one on tour to New York. And on a cold day in late March, two long-haired guys from Nebraska carried that second desk from their U-Haul through my front door and installed it in my living room.

It’s new to my house, but it’s always been part of my life, a landmark in my mental map of all the homes I lived in as a kid. When I was 7 or 8 and I wanted to pretend I was in some mysterious castle or wizard’s cave, especially if the winter meant I was stuck inside, I’d crawl under what we always called “the Belle desk.” It’s a grand wooden contraption, with intricate carvings of scrolls, grapevines and for some reason palm trees, a modesty screen (so you can’t see legs from the other side) shaped somewhat like a menorah in the middle, and a center drawer full of foreign coins, letter openers and other treasures. My mom and dad used the desk to handle the household bills. When my sister and I were young, my mother told me later, she would sit at the desk and cry as she tried to…