When my Grandad died he left me his typewriter. It might not seem like much, but he was a journalist by trade when he was young he did a lot of writing on it, which always made it really special to me. When he wrote me letters from abroad with his corporate job (sometimes he went to London, and I even got a letter from Paris once) they would always be neatly typed on the typewriter, addresses in the corner and everything. I thought it was so cool - it was like receiving a note in a murder mystery. Of course, the content was usually pretty standard, but when you're eight everything foreign is exciting. I honestly don't know how he lugged it all that way, but he managed to. There was no weight limit on baggage those days, I suppose.So when he died after battling lung cancer for two long years, I was amazingly happy to receive the typewriter. It sat in a place of honor in my office, looking smaller than I remembered. I tried to keep it neatly dusted, but I didn't like to put the dust cover on - I preferred to look at it and remember him and the days before laptops and wireless internet.
Almost a year later, I realized it had been a long time since I talked to my grandmother; she lived in another part of the country. I thought it would be a really nice gesture to write her a letter on the old typewriter, as sort of a remembrance, and talk about how she was doing, and what it meant to me that grandad had left me his typewriter, etc. She lived alone in a small, close neighborhood and there was always lots going on. I thought she might like this quiet gesture after the year of change.
I sat down with the typewriter and some new inktape I had ordered online. I changed out the rolls, and then put in two pieces of paper as grandad had showed me when I was really young (if you put in just one, the force of the letter stamps make indents on the roll). I let my fingers adjust to the strange, detached, bouncy feeling of the keys, and then I began to type. It was odd - like skating on a mattress, or bounding across bubblewrap. The first lines came out quickly - lines like my grandad had written me. Address, date, salutation line. Neat, formulaic, simple. Dear Mathilde, well that was rather strange - but I must be getting used to this grown up thing or something. But then something began to happen. I went to hit a key, but it seemed to be forming into something else in the transition. My first sentence - how are you? Turned into how I love you. The second, I hope all is well for you, stayed the same. The third, I am writing upon grandad's old typewriter, became I am writing on the typewriter like all the times I wanted to, but never did. As I wrote, the sentences continued, black and very very real.
The letter continued on, thusly: The days were long without you, but I thought of you and the kids when I was away. Sometimes I wanted your arms around me so much I thought I would break into a million little pieces and end up a bloody mess on the floor. I tried to put up walls around me when I was away, but one glance at your photograph and that smile always made me melt.
You always had the most amazing eyes (this was true, grandma's eyes were absolutely livid blue, and they were the most arresting sight I had ever seen. She said her eyesight was bad due to this - but I think it was worth it for her). When I saw you the first night, it was at the hair salon. I never told you, because I thought you would find it a little embarassing. I kept it secret all our years! But I realize now that that's the memory you need - the memory of how I saw you, how I loved you.
You were there, with your sister and your friend, you were all getting rollers. And I saw how they tried to talk you into something. But you shook your head, wrinkled your nose, and laughed. That laugh. You laughed at the idea of changing anything, and that's what I fell in love with. You were so certain. How could you be so certain? I love you, Mathilde. I love you still. And I am so certain. You were always my heart, and now it beats inside you as certainly as it did me.
I'll always be yours, even now.
George.
What was I to do? I had never seen anything like this in my life. By the end of the letter, I was crying, but I didn't know how to deal with this letter. Shakingly, I picked up the phone to call my grandmother. Noone picked up the phone, so I called my mother, wondering if she knew where my grandma could be. Mom picked up the phone, breathless. "I'm sorry, honey, Grandma's in the hospital, she's had an episode... they think it was a heart attack." I didn't know how to handle this news, but I knew that as far away as it was, the letter and grandma needed to be together.
It was the next day when I arrived in town. Grandma was stable, but serious. The doctors just didn't know - with these cases it went either way. Should I give her the letter at such a time. Maybe not. Maybe so. I waited outside her room - and I wondered, the letter in my pocket. It might seem like a cruel joke, or a sad reality, or a reminder of sorrow. Grandma was resting, but when I came in she perked up, looking at me, and taking my hand, she said hello in her Grandma voice, and I couldn't help it. I needed to share the weight of the letter with her. I hoped her wizened hands could bear it.
"Grandma..." I began, not really knowing how to start.
She smiled at me warmly, and I sat down on the side of her bed.
"I brought something for you," I said. "I think that Grandad loved you very much, and when I saw his typewriter, I... I thought how much he must have missed you. And I wrote this for you. I think maybe I'll let you read it later. Maybe when you're better."
She smiled at me again, and lifted her hand weakly. "Why don't you let me see it honey," she said. "I know he's gone."
And so she took it, and she read it, and when she looked at me, her eyes were tearful.
"You did a wonderful job, sweetheart," she said, and looked down at the letter again. Her eyes were bright and amazing, like they used to be before he died. "A wonderful job."
"I'm sorry it made you sad," I offered, helplessly.
"It didn't make me sad - it made me... happy," she replied, with a brave look.
"I think it was rather cruel of me..."
"No, no." She shook her head strongly. "This is just what I needed."
And it seemed to be. She continued on for many years after that - she saw the birth of her grandchildren, her pride and joy, and she was cared for until she died peacefully, in her sleep. When we went through her things, the letter was tucked in the front page of her Bible, next to her bed. And on the bottom, written next to his signature, she had written in light pencil, I love you George, and with your heart, I'll go on.
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