I found you, dear one,
At an estate sale this morning
On a back table
With a price sticker on your roller:
$15.
And in that instant,
I fell deeply in love.
With you
And with the idea
Of one day
Taking you home
Cleaning you up
Fixing your broken pieces
And setting my fingers on your keys
To type poetry
To hear the click clack of your keys
That live in my mind’s ear
From when my mom used
To type her college papers
On our manual typewriter
At our kitchen table
When I was a girl
In Michigan.
Perhaps on a
Distant relative
Of yours
And then when I typed
My own papers for
College and
Grad school
Before in walked
The computer
Entering stage left.
And didn’t look back
Until today.
In watching a how-to video
Online on how to mend your
Broken bits
I learned about your
Serial number
And discovered
You were made in 1926
You are 97 years old!
When I heard your bell
The first time
My heart literally leapt
I sprayed W-D 40
On your keys and
Got them working
And used nearly
An entire box
Of Q-tips dipped in
Hot soapy water
To clean
Off the years of grime
And dust
Although now I know
You’re not supposed to use
Either W-D 40
Or water
To clean a typewriter.
Who knew?
Although you are
Not yet ready to be
Used, per se
It is incredible to have
You in my home
A piece of history
That connects to my present
And will help write
My future.
My Underwood.
I love you so.
