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I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to see above the top of it as mothersat writing letters. Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens, and white paper, I decidedthat the act of writing must be the more wonderful thing in the world. Years later, during her finalillness, mother kept different things for my sister and brother."But the desk," she'd said again, "it'sfor Elizaheth."
I never saw her angry, never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she showed it in acdou. Butas a young girl, I wanted heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter. They never happened.And a gulf opened between us. I was "too emotional". But she lived "on the surface".
As years passed I had my own family. I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she ebose that she didforgive me. I posted the letter and waited for her answer. None came. My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally, peace-it seemed that nothing happened. I couldn't besure that the letter had even got to mother. I only knew that I had written it, and l could stop tryingto make her into someone she was not.
Now the present of her desk told, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside--a photo ofmy father and a one-page letter, folded and refolded many times. Give me an answer, my letterasks, in any way you choose. Mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words.
The writer began to love her mother's desk A．after mother died
B．before she became a writer
C．when she was a child
D．when mother gave it to her
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