The guest room desk sat against the far wall under a small framed print of a blue lake.

I walked across the carpet and sat down on the wooden chair.

I placed both palms flat on the smooth laminate surface of the desk.

Eighty-five thousand dollars was the exact sum the real estate attorney handed me in April after the Elm Street house closed.

It stood for thirty-four years of standing on concrete floors at the Columbus shoe plant, packing heavy work boots into cardboard boxes until my lower back burned.

It stood for the overtime shifts I took every December so Mark could have new coat zippers and proper leather shoes for winter.