Jeremy collapsed into his chair and let the calm of his study peck away at his tension. The rich oak furniture left a musk that permeated his nostrils, mixing with the faint essence of the old books that lined the shelves to his right. His desk lamp radiated just enough light so he could read the various titles, glimmering in their faded silver typeface. Moby Dick, Huckleberry Finn, Rhetoric, Voltaire. What would these classical, great writers have to say about the events of this week? They never could have imagined such a terrible, horrible tragedy. Of course, throughout history people had died. Wars, genocide, disease. Murder. Government ordered murder. But distance, through space and time, had always made history just that—history. This seemed so far removed from all of that, nearly incomprehensible.
So Jeremy retreated here, to his study, to let the oak and paper smells wash away his memory, to let the keys on the typewriter rewrite his history. To escape to a place that made sense and was right. A place where he could live.
The first keystroke hit the paper. Tap. The first word. Tap, tap, tap…tap. tap. From there, the musky cloud of the oak furniture and the flapping, old yellowed pages carried Jeremy, one keystroke at a time, to a place where he could see his son again.
No comments:
Post a Comment