This is the vintage Remington typewriter that belongs to my mother. It sits on her shelves, is lovingly dusted each week, and is the instrument with which she typed all her papers in high school and letters to my father when he was in Vietnam. I used to play with it when I was little, sneaking over when I thought the heavy “ca-chink” of the keys striking wouldn’t be heard. I would marvel at how anyone could write page after page, pushing down against the heavy metal keys, using correction fluid to erase mistakes (or worse, starting anew). “Are you playing with that typewriter again?” her voice would call out from upstairs, her “super-sonic mom ears” able to detect my quietest movements. I smile now as she scurries over to keep my oldest son from playing with the Remington when we visit her in Virginia. I have hopes that he’ll be as in love with the written word as I was, and am. Perhaps he’ll see his work published one day too. Perhaps my mother will finally realize this typewriter is indestructible and simply let children enjoy drafting their imaginary novels. Perhaps, in honor of my mother, I’ll be chasing my own grandchildren’s mischievous hands away from the keys when it adorns my shelves many years from now.

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