I have no idea how old this dresser is. I do not care. It already was in my bedroom when I was born.
It has three wooden wheels. I suspect my sister’s kids broke the fourth. I have it propped to the point that it is level. One day, a Home Depot trip will make it whole.
Over the years, paint has been splattered on it and varnish has been scraped off. It has been dinged, scratched and knocked around. I do not care.
When my bedroom became my bedroom and no one else’s, it became my dresser. It held my scocks, underwear and sundry other garments. I was sorry to leave it when I went to college. I tried to take it to Petersburg in 2006, but my mom suggested I take the particleboard one I bought for college. It fell apart in late 2008.
I attempted to take it with me in 2009 when I moved to Richmond. I bought the drawers and swore I would get the body. It was just slightly too big for my car’s trunk. I gave up when I moved to Chimborazo and bought another cheap jigsaw dresser. It stopped being functional in 2013.
This year, Renée bought an SUV. I took it to Hampton with the express purpose of taking what was mine.
It’s now in our spare room, which is my closet. It holds my underclothes and other garnents once again.
It is solid wood. I have no idea how old it is. It is on broken wheels. It is scratched, dented and flecked with paint.
I do not care.
I do not mind.
It is mine.