Rescue

We were about to close the storage room. We had found nothing of much importance. My father almost forgot to mention it: “We brought this from Brazil, years ago. We thought you might want it.” He pointed to the black case. I instantly recognized it. “The typewriter!”, I said. My excitement surprised him. I dragged it upstairs. Placed it right on the kitchen counter and opened the case. It was pristine. Extra ribbons were even tucked into the machine for future use. Without knowing how remote of a future that would be.

The typewriter had been abandoned for the last fifteen years. I assumed it defunct, after a recent flood in my sister’s house. Any family artifacts succumbed to it. My parents and I tried to trace its’ probable itinerary. Did it come by ship? Did it come by plane? My father unearths a list. It describes the contents of a shipment that in 2012 left the docks in Rio de Janeiro with remnants of our Brazilian existence. A set of blue cookie jars. 3 rugs of crochet and a table cloth. 81 vinyl records. Picture frames. It goes on, but the typewriter wasn’t listed. We concluded it had been sneaked back into this country in a suitcase, circa 2002.

Sitting on the bottom of the case, a warranty form made its origins clear. Purchase date: September 20th, 1972. The address listed was 33–04 93rd st., New York, 10036 — my parent’s address as newlyweds. The typewriter came along when they relocated to…