Casually coasting on cynicism,
My story needed revision,
Tragedy had blinded and caused a division
Of hope and faith from daily existence,
‘Til I happened upon an anachronism.
It shouldn’t belong – this remnant of the not so distantly gone.
It struck me deep and bloody like a blues song.
Dusty and made real by the grit;
I couldn’t submit it to my typical criticism.
Under the dirt and neglect, it deserved my respect.
Tenderly wiped free of grime and debris,
Years of being forgotten, cast aside, only to now be,
Polished and shined. Even the melancholy and angry,
Even the pessimistic and wounded me,
Would be remiss to dismiss such an obvious sign,
Right here above my head, for decades left behind,
Idly binding its time as a portent of fate.
The timing was punctual, precise, and perfect.
Everything about this moment was as it should be,
Rewriting where my story was spiraling, was this typewriter brought out of hiding.
PS: The link with the image is a collection of typewriter stories from a few years back =) I was happy to discover other people with a weird sentimental attachment to the rather clunky device.