The Heavy-handed Typewriter
After my father passed away, it was my responsibility to box up his things. That’s when I found it in the bottom drawer of his old desk. A Smith-Corona. One key—the D—still stuck if you weren’t firm enough. It had been years since I touched it. Longer still since I’d heard its voice—clack, clack, ding—echo through the house like an exclamation point on a dream.
My dad wasn’t a writer. Not professionally. But every night, after we’d all gone to bed, he’d sit down with that typewriter and just… write. Letters to no one. Letters to himself. Ideas. Sometimes stories. After donating most of his things, I decided to keep the typewriter, even though I didn’t know why at the time. Then, one night—weeks deep into a grief I couldn’t post about or explain—I pulled it out. The world had gotten too loud. Every screen was screaming at me. Grief had an algorithm now, and I just needed something real. When I opened the ribbon spool to clean it, I found an envelope folded beneath the metal carriage. My name was on it. Inside, his voice came through like it never left:
“If you’re reading this, then you’ve finally run out of excuses not to write. Good. This machine doesn’t care about grammar or fame or followers. It only wants your truth. So give it that. When the digital noise gets too loud—and it will—you can come back here and write your truth.
Love you, Dad.”
That letter broke me in the best way. I typed for the first time in years. Not to publish. Not to post. Just to feel the world slow down. Over time, the Smith-Corona moved with me—from apartment to house, through breakups, marriage, and eventually fatherhood. It sat in my office like a sleeping relic, waiting patiently while I tapped away on keyboards made of plastic.
Now my son is heading off to college. I don’t expect him to use it. But something tells me he’ll need it one day. I packed the typewriter carefully, polishing the keys and checking the ribbon. I slipped my dad’s letter into a new envelope and addressed it to my son. Then I added a note of my own:
You don’t have to use it. Not now. Maybe not ever. But one day, when the world gets too loud—when your head is full and your hands don’t know what to do—come here. Let it be quiet. Let it be slow. And write your truth. Even if your hands shake.
Love you, Dad.
