Old words
Old typewriters make me sad. They remind me of my late grandfather, the one from Mexico. When he was alive, he used to send me typewritten letters, because he had Parkinson's Disease, and he didn't have the motor-skills to write the letters by hand. He'd spend hours rocking over his ancient typewriter, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, painstakingly tapping out pages of greetings and declarations of love, one single letter at the time.
HIs letters would arrive in flimsy little airmail envelopes, the edges trimmed with green and red. I learnt to associate the distinctive type (sometimes over-inked and slightly off-kilter) with bittersweet sentiments. A chest-filling sensation of being so loved, sadness at how he was deteriorating, and later on as I grew up, guilt that I hardly wrote back. I always meant to, but I always got distracted. School, friends, TV...
I wonder if he waited for my letters. Did he send his out, looking forward to a reply, only to have nothing return to him? To this day, one of the greatest regrets I have is that I didn't lift his heart with letters the way he did mine.
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HIs letters would arrive in flimsy little airmail envelopes, the edges trimmed with green and red. I learnt to associate the distinctive type (sometimes over-inked and slightly off-kilter) with bittersweet sentiments. A chest-filling sensation of being so loved, sadness at how he was deteriorating, and later on as I grew up, guilt that I hardly wrote back. I always meant to, but I always got distracted. School, friends, TV...
I wonder if he waited for my letters. Did he send his out, looking forward to a reply, only to have nothing return to him? To this day, one of the greatest regrets I have is that I didn't lift his heart with letters the way he did mine.
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