When she sat down, I was excited to see her-it’s been a long time-and she seemed optimistic, but now she’s stopped typing I can see her brow furrow and frustration build in the creases of her face. Don’t give up, I want to shout, but I can’t find the words.
As she walks away, I watch helplessly. I re-read the short passages she left. Though I read everything she writes, I am never able to offer advice or tell her when she’s fretting too much.
The only words I have are the ones she gives me, her typewriter.