Magic

A current of excitement zaps me as Andy shoves aside some boxes in his attic and uncovers the old Underwood Number 5. Goosebumps jump up off my skin, the experience registers at the top of my inner Magic-o-Meter.

Who can trace the trajectory of the heart? What is the alchemy that creates reality from dreams? And which of our dreams are the ones that are meant to come true?

A thought memory of Andy – a hurtling neural riddle of convoluted connection -- flashed across the video screen of my brain for a microsecond in February this year. At the same moment, two thousand kilometers away, a mutual friend mentioned my name to Andy. He decided to contact me.

Wow.

The old typewriter sits in the loft of Andy’s garage, parked on the floor amidst boxes of stuff – there’s the Boston Bruins # 5 jersey he played in when he was a kid, a collection of pewter dragons and knights, pots and pans that belonged to his best friend who died climbing Mount Temple, and at least a hundred empty paint tins intended for recycling rather than the landfill.

Underwood Number 5, circa 1931. It is a lovely little upright machine. I kneel in front of it, sniff metal. The red and black ribbon that I remember from a previous lifetime curls around two spools. There is dust on the keys, the R is slightly depressed, and one silver metal hammer sticks up out of the gleaming sickle of silver keys. Memories crowd the door of my heart.

“That’s the last key you pressed,” Andy whispers. “What was the last word you wrote on this typewriter?”

In 1995 I lived in a small basement suite on Wolf Street in Banff. 32 years old, I was on my own. Still in the closet as a writer. Single, I wanted a baby. Was aware that I needed a man to facilitate that.

In a private ritual by a glacier lake I cast a spell. “I’m ready for the child,” I called out. (I suppose I could have whispered.) “And I know that means I’ll need to find its father.”

Boom. Mess with magic and you will manifest. Try it.

Men streamed into Evelyn’s Coffee Bar where I worked. They brought me roses, stories, and jokes, and offered me excursions and advice. One man brought me this Underwood typewriter when he uncovered my secret life as a writer.

Not all who approached were accepted, but I made a point of thanking the Universe for each one. In poetry I wrote on the Underwood Number 5, with this red and black ribbon.

I also dashed off grocery lists, and hammered thoughts into words on the old Underwood. I banged out my prayers. Transcribed my guilt into gold. And tapped out my wishes.

I looked ahead and trusted. I knew what I wanted, I just didn’t know when. Or how. I left that up to magic.

Three men made the final cut (wishes come true in triples, watch for this): one man I let go, the second became the father of my children, the third is Andy, my lover now, here beside me in the attic.

I lean into him. Exhale slowly. Shaken.

He didn’t want children. He had his reasons. We were friends for a season and then we went our separate ways.

The delicate nature of our reconnection – thoughts and mental images whizzing across the airwaves, delicate currents of heart connection, the impeccable perfection of timing – undoes me. On one hand it is so powerful, on the other, it feels like we could easily have missed all this. If any of the decisions made in the past had been different -- even only one – we might not be here, in love and marveling at the mysteries of the universe.

I inhale. Smile. Lean forward and breathe across the keys. Andy reaches over and releases the R.

I begin to write.

Boom.