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The Typing Machine

Every morning I get out of bed at five in the morning. No, I am not following any CEO type suggestion in life, it’s just the time I wake up and start my day. I love getting up when the city is still asleep. The sun soon sets sight on my comforter through the 3 x 7 window. A picture sits on my bed frame, my mother and I back at home. Stumbling into the kitchen, my eye catches the French press. Sitting, alone in the sink waiting to be attended to. I scrub it with some Dawn I got over at Duane Reade the other day; it was on sale so hey, why not. I used to be a Barista so I have a pretty fair share of knowledge about my coffee. My ears ask for forgiveness as I grind the coffee on the paper setting. I love people watching in the morning. I sit out on my fire escape and just observe. Observe what the morning does to people. The morning has a huge effect on someone’s day. It’s interesting to see how someone starts their day.

Every morning I like to write. I write either in my apartment, a coffee shop, or the park. I release my immediate thoughts through my typewriter that sits innocently on my desk. It’s an oldie but goodie, maybe from the 1960’s? My father got it as a going away gift when I made the decision to move to Manhattan. The last couple of days it’s been pretty muggy here. A casual high of 80 degrees with a 60% chance of thunderstorms. Today’s forecast? A high of 76 with a15% chance of showers. I slip on my Birkenstocks and grab my olive umbrella, just in case. My favorite color has always been olive, it’s soft and contemporary, like that one radio station back home.

I’m not too far from the park. I live at over at 8 Jones Street in Greenwich Village. Three blocks and I’ll be over there in no time. The park is bustling with tourists, street performers, and street hustlers. I find a bench on the west side of the park. It’s quiet over here, away from all of the rambunctious noise that is happening toward the infamous arch. Last week I got a buzz from Gramercy Typewriter Co. informing me that my typewriter was ready to be picked up. I had dropped it off for minor repairs, nothing too crazy. A simple ribbon change. Yes, I could’ve done it back at home but I didn’t have the part. I reached in my bag and ascended it into life in the park. I type simply what I observe.

The sun peeks through the trees. I touch my neck,

it’s hot to the touch. A mother and child walk in front of me, kicking the

bark that lays beneath them.

I miss u mom. xo

The clicking and the clacking echo’s the trees and back onto my typewriter. My fingers rest on the keys, anxiously waiting to start typing again. I look up and see the mother and child in the distance. I get a shiver through my body. Maybe it’s my mom sending a reminder that Hey, I miss you and I love you. You’re doing great things. Words can’t express how proud I am of you. A faint smile grows on my face. I don’t smell the lingering smell of hot dogs and unleaded anymore. The scent of my mom’s perfume finds its way through the branches and from between the slats on the bench. I no longer hear the sirens and the horns coming from the streets. The violin solo from Celine Dion’s To Love You More enters the park from all directions, one of my mother's favorite songs. I start typing some more. I reach about three-quarters of a page and I come to a close.

Enough writing for today I suppose. I usually try to write about a page. I’m always trying to strengthen my writing. I get up slowly from the bench. A sharp pain makes its way through my hip. It must be the karate back when I was younger. I insert the Xerox in a standard envelope and head to the street corner. I seal the letter and finalize the address on the front of the envelope. I hear a slight thud coming from the mailbox. It has hit the bottom, full of other messages that people are anxious to read. The concrete isn’t as bright as it was earlier. A slight rumble of thunder whispers over my shoulder. One drop hits the concrete in front of me followed by another and another. I’ve walked one block and it's starting to sprinkle. The umbrella pops above me and shields me from the tears that are entering the city of dreams. The door opens with a creak and closes behind me. I plop on the couch and crack open my Mac. Notifications swarm the top right corner of the screen. CNN, Apple Updates, Facebook all forming before my eyes. At that moment, it's pouring outside. People run through Jones Street struggling open to open their umbrellas as they soon come to West 4th Street. I see my phone light up. It’s from my mom. I swipe to open the message.

Hi Honey

Got an alert from the news that a storm was heading your way. I always think of you…just a little more today I guess. Your brother is getting so tall. Just checking on you! Call me soon!

Love you, honey,