Typewriters Can't Sing

prologue

I stand outside the bedroom door, eavesdropping on my parents. I peer through the small cracked slit in the doorway. Mom and Dad sit at Papa's feet discussing his nearing demise. I cringe, lacking the ability to see past the mere idea of him leaving us. He can't leave us. He's always been here for us, for me. I swallow my salty tears.

Suddenly, Mom nods, glancing at my hidden shadow. She grasps Daddy's hand and pulls herself up off the bed. As she opens the creaky door, I stumble backwards. Mom forces a weak smile, stroking my tear streaked cheek, "He wants to see you."

Shyly, I hurtle over the bedroom threshold and into the arms of Papa. He's warm, but I feel coldness beginning to burden his body. I shudder, unable to speak.

He grins, not saying a word. Noticing the floral comforter, I trace the pink rose embellishment. Papa fidgets underneath the blanket. Nervously, I freeze, unwilling to look upon his hardened face. "It's okay, Lindsay. I'm still here." he chuckles softly. I smile, "You can't leave yet, Papa."

Papa begins to trace the purple lilac embellishment, "You see, there is a special time that each of us are entitled to go. You may be able to escape random, spontaneous things, but you cannot escape your last breath."

I nod slowly. He smiles, "Why are you so fascinated with the roses in the garden?"

I ponder my response, for the roses in the garden mean a lot more to me than a single sentence, with a single subject, and one single predicate.

"The roses in the garden are stained. Some of them are pure, like the deep red ones, the pink, the white, and the yellow," I pause, granting his attention, "but the other half are damaged."

His eyes produce a familiar sense of befuddlement, "What do you mean 'damaged'?"

"Half of the roses are mixed, like God decided to throw paint at already completed canvases." I explain.

"You still haven't answered my question, why are you so fascinated?" he insists.

I close my eyes, dreaming of the roses lining the garden wall. "I am fascinated, not only by the range of color, but by the gleam the roses express when the stars come out."

"Ah, but everything is much more extravagant when the stars come out to dance." he smiles, shifting beneath the covers. He coughs as a single tear rolls swiftly out of his ocean blue eyes.

"Lindsay, before I die, I have an important gift for you." Papa whispers.

Through my gentle tears, I watch as Grandfather unveils the dark velvet box resting upon his brittle bones.

Our hands meet, for a brief second, as he passes the stubborn box to me. He coughs, gasping for one more breath.

"Promise me, Lindsay, that you'll write that story," he stutters, "you know, the one about the stars."

I bite my lip, "I promise, Papa."

As he draws his final breath, his eyes twinkle, releasing the hidden galaxy that had waited anxiously to return to their home.