Sixteen Pages

"I held it as if at any moment it might have slipped from my grasp and I would have completely lost every part of my Dad forever"

Essie May Davis started her typewriter collection when she was nine. And now when her life has completely changed, She clings to the beautiful machines like they might slip from her grasp forever.

A story about love, loss and the overwhelming feeling of forgotten stories.


1. Page One

First, I'll tell you that I'm not writing this voluntarily. They're telling me to because because they think it will be good. They really just want me to be doing something because I haven't been doing much lately. That's their problem; I haven't been doing enough to occupy myself and they think they can help me. Now I know this has to start somewhere but I don't want to start this anywhere. There is a place I have to start this if I start this anywhere and I know they want me to.

    I got my first typewriter from my aunt on my ninth Birthday. She took me into her antique shop and said "Take what you want Essie May". 
    I remember wandering around the place for a while, looking at the old dolls and little china statuettes on cupboards and in glass cabinets. Sitting on every chair there was to sit on. I don't know how I remember so little about that small part of my life. That small insignificant part of my life means the world to me now because then, after a while of searching, I saw it. A beautiful Remington Rand typewriter, model seventeen from the '40s. I loved it. 
    When I got home Dad put it down on my desk and I sat there staring at it for the rest of the afternoon. It was beautiful and I still don't think I can explain that feeling.

    I have seventeen typewriters now, including the one on top of my wardrobe. After that birthday, Mum and Dad gave me one every year. Dad Started travelling for work and every time he came back, he'd have a new typewriter for me from a different country. I had three from Britain including my first one, and one from Italy and Russia, two from Germany and four from the US the other five were Australian. The last on my Dad gave me was from Germany. 
    He went to France after that and he told me he'd found a real beauty. A French typewriter, I didn't have one of them. But Dad didn't get to give it to me. They sent it in the post with his suitcase and his ashes. I didn't open it, I couldn't. I stood on a chair and put it on top of my wardrobe where I couldn't see it. It's up there now, on top of my wardrobe where I can't see it. My Mum died three weeks ago. She was coming home early from work that day and the man wasn't looking. He slammed right into the side of the car. They said he was in a critical condition but Mum was gone instantly.
    That's when I had to pack up my typewriters-all seventeen of them and moved in with Aunt Margot and Queenie.

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