Dear Maryanne,
I was wondering if…
The typewriter sat untouched on the desk. The words on the paper were dry, and had been most of the night. A candle burned, wax dripping off the stub, which would be gone in less than an hour. The clock on the wall did not tick. It hadn’t for a while, and wouldn’t, unless he tried to fix it. The only sound was that of a fingernail scratching paint off the old desk.
The man had been sitting at his desk since last night, and was still sitting there, even as the sun peeked through the small window on the far side of the room. The patter of rain had turned to the quiet whisper of snowfall, which had finally turned to silence.
And still he sat there. His left hand rested on the keys of the machine, and he scratched the side of the desk with the other. At one point, a woodpecker knocked on the dead oak tree that was right by the house. The man turned his head to look out the window. He couldn't see the bird, but he heard the noise. A minute later, the sound stopped. The man wondered if the bird had found anything in the tree.
Looking back at the typewriter, a nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was glad the thirty-year-old machine still worked. Well, the "M" key did get stuck occasionally, and the lever for the "K" was broken. Yet, it was better than those computer things that everyone had now. They couldn't do anything when the power blew.
So, he used his Browns 1950s model F typewriter when he wanted to write. The man was no poet; he preferred wheat to word. But it was wintertime, and the harvest was done, and the cattle were resting. And with the radio being broken, and the fire warming the house, he was alone with his thoughts and the beginnings of the smile faded.
It was his fault, and he knew that. But he didn't think Maryanne, his sweet Maryanne, would have left. And she only came back to ride and check on her horse. Even though she came to the house at least once a week, they hadn’t spoken in five years. She came and went, and he worked and pretended not to notice. If he had only looked up, he might have seen the tears in her eyes.
And so the man sat, in the cold, dark room, staring at the almost blank sheet of paper. The birds sang their song and his heart ached for his wife. Did she feel the same way? Would she forgive him?
He scratched at the paint and stared at the page and sat in silence.
The drum of the woodpecker started up again, and this time the man stood up from his chair and walked over to the window. Slowly. He was getting old. Straining his neck to see through the dusty glass, he spotted the woodpecker on one of the thicker boughs of the tree. The bird pecked at the log furiously, making little progress, but progress nonetheless. The bird lunged in to the hole she had made, and came up with a large beetle which was trapped in her beak.
The man watched as the little creature took flight, and carried her catch higher into the tree. She landed at a nest, set high above the ground, and was gone. The man couldn’t see what the bird had done, but he could imagine. The bird was a mother.
Sitting back down at the desk, the man thought about how hard it must be for a tiny bird to bore through such a thick obstacle and catch a fast beetle. How often did the bug escape the woodpecker? She would have to start all over again if her attempt failed. And yet she survived. Straightening, he started to type.
Dear Maryanne,
I was wondering if you wanted to join me this Tuesday for dinner at my home. Perhaps when you stop by to chec on the horses, you would stay a little longer for some hot cocoa and a piece of rhubarb pie. Hopefully my pastries are as good as they were ten years ago! Also, I do want to know how your brother is holding up these days. Please come. I am very sorry. It was my fault. I hurt you. I never meant for that. I do care for you much.
Sincerely, Walter
The Woodpecker
Ooh. I like this.