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.

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2. Page Two

It was a chilly Monday morning when I looked at my typewriters lining the shelf of my room. I had to put them all in boxes that day and there was a daunting feeling bubbling in the pit of my stomach. It didn't feel right, taking these typewriters from my room and knowing they'd never come back. Knowing that this was potentially the last time I'd know this place as my home. I'd taken two weeks off school starting last Thursday which meant I had until next Wednesday to et over myself and get back to learning maths and science and english and history and all that other sort of stuff. I wasn't at all sure how that would go but I could see already that it wasn't going to be easy. Aunt Margot had let me stay in my house until I'd finished packing so I got to watch as my house was slowly packed away and transported to Aunt Margot's shop. I watched and helped as my house was slowly pulled apart. I think Margo was trying to make me feel better. She kew I didn't want to leave and so the longer I stayed, the better I might feel. That wasn't so much how it was. The longer I stayed, the more I wished. Wished that Mum hadn't died or that Dad was here with me. He was in that house then. We had his ashes in a small ornate vase, but I wanted him to be there really. I wished he'd been there to give me the typewriter, the typewriter from France that was sitting on top of my wardrobe. That still is sitting on top of my wardrobe. Wished he was alive and that he could tell me that everything was going to go back to normal and that if I just waited and took a few deep breaths, I'd be fine because that was what he would have said. That was what he always said and if he were there he would say it again. That had been the first time I'd taken down Dad's typewriter since it'd been sent to us. That dreary morning when my room fitted into cardboard boxes, my typewriters filled Aunt Margot's boot and my house was packed into the back of a removal truck. Just before twelve o'clock we were in the car and heading back to the antique shop. I sat i the front passenger seat with Dad's typewriter on my lap. I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I chose that one out of all my seventeen typewriters but I did. I'd chosen the one I I hadn't seen for years, the one I'd tried to forget about for so long. Maybe that was when I needed Dad most. Maybe I'd tried to forget for too long. In that moment on that dull Monday, I was moving to a new future. A future I wasn't entirely happy about.
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