There’s Work, and Then There’s Your Life’s Work
When I’m nine, my father takes me to work with him. I don’t see what all the fuss is about or why he complains. There’s a storage room with a projector and magic markers that smell like bananas. A full kitchen. And two vending machines.
I sit at a desk in an empty cubicle and write a story about a young girl, a storm and a lighthouse. I pull the pages from the electric typewriter, staple them together and hold them out in front of me, admiring the look of completion.