This typewriter.
This bulky black typewriter was all she had. She didn’t mind the weight. She loved the weight. It was the weight of something to hold on to. It was the weight of the promise of a million new worlds Elle could escape into any time she felt overwhelmed. Or just in need of some friendly company.
A moment’s pause presented itself and Elle took it greedily. Set a new page. Centered. Stared at the keys.
All she wanted to do was cover the page with Es. Back to back in neat rows. Cascading in columns straight down to the bottom.
She had fallen in love with E a long time ago. The strength in the arms, slight gather at the tips. The little dash in the middle, securely attached to the spine. Safe, protected. There weren’t a lot of opportunities for her to use E. e was, of course, incredibly popular, but E was more elusive. Maddeningly elusive. Elle had to reach and twist and turn to find opportunities for E to emerge. She had changed her name on the page to draw it out. Elle was committed. Beyond that, it was a treasure hunt for words. Earwig. Eavesdrop. Everything.
Everything.
Everything hurt. Ears ringing. Mind fuzzy under a blanket of heavy confusion. Her mother. Her mother. Something had happened. They were both standing here. Together. Then. Explosion. Emptiness. Flailing in the blinding dust. Heart burning. How long had it been burning? Ease as the dust settled and the silhouette of her mother materialized. Except. Something was off. Yes, she looked like her mother. Smelled like her mother. But the eyes were distant, the warmth gone. Her mother offered a hand. “Let’s go” she said. And Elle wanted to go. She wanted out of there. Away from this wreckage. But she was afraid. Confusion swirling. The raw need of a skinny 6yo in a war zone mixing with growing distrust and pain. What had this blast stolen from her? And how? Where was her mother? Why did the hand offered feel so rough and calloused? Her mother’s hand was soft with washing dishes and cooking pies and soaking the laundry. This hand was the rough cut of sorting through metal, handling shovels and pickaxes. Even more unsettling, the grip was weak. Elle had to hold the weight of her own hand as it grasped, awkwardly, onto her mom’s.
This had only been days ago. Moments in Elle’s mind. And now she sat at this train station. Next to this odd, sour, calloused woman she wanted so desperately to call her mom. But whenever she did, the sour set in deeper. Elle could see it in the darkening creases of her face. The rigid hold of her body.
Elle wanted to die. But instead she stared at her typewriter. It was only a part of her that wanted to die. The same part that stole away her stories and left her with E. Maybe she should change it. To Y or W. Y had the blast not killed her? Y has it left her here in this heart-wrenching new reality? What happened?!
Tears fell. Pure and clear on the outside, but the blood of a demolished heart on the inside. Elle let them fall onto the paper. Let herself get lost in the salty craters they left, the streaks of black they pulled on when they collided with fresh ink.
She would get through this, she knew. Whether she stayed with this cold woman in this train station forever or she boarded a passing train in search of a new mother or she walked back out the door on her own, ready to mother her own needs.
For now, she sat. Staring at the page. Stealing glances at the woman. This flickering flame of hope wouldn’t let her go. If her mother was in there, she would wait for her. With her trusty typewriter, she would search for the words to bring her back. She would exhaust all avenues before giving up. Elle didn’t give up. And this wasn’t yet time to change.
So Elle stayed. She pecked at her typewriter. And she prayed.
