The One Above All Others

The click of the lock and the creek of the door as it gingerly swings inward, leaves the faintest trace of a smile on Arthur Maude’s weathery face. Arthur is sixty four years old, and has loved many things in his life. From things as simple as food or books, to things of greater consequence… Like money, or women. Though there has been one love, above all the others… 

The room smells like old books and heat, sunbeams stream through a small window on the left side. The bright warmth of the light finds its way across a wooden desk and chair with a throw pillow. Highlighting two books, a few notebooks and a pen strewn across the table top. An old typewriter sits undisturbed in the middle of the desk however, cobwebs and dust fill the spaces between the keys. Across the small room is a rather large bookshelf. It takes up the whole wall. Dust has also found its way along the spines of his books, and its particles dance along the air. Almost as if greeting him. It has been an awfully long time after all.

Arthur started writing when he was ten after discovering comics and adventure stories. His mother, unable to afford a laptop in the early eighties, found a working and relatively new typewriter at a local thrift shop in Manchester; and brought it home for her son. It never failed him. On the contrary, one could argue that Arthur had failed it. 

The moment Arthur touched the keys, he knew this was it. He knew words were his way of escape. His future. He spent hours in his room writing stories of other worlds, building characters he wished he could be or meet. Arthur found joy and peace in writing. As he got older, his interest in prose grew. He researched the greats: Dostoyevsky, Shakespeare, Dickinson to name a few. He spent his mornings perfecting sonnets on the edges of his school notebook, or writing short scenes at dinner. When Arthur finished high school and went on to college, he wrote articles and literary essays. 

It wasn’t until he met Lila Mae, that his love for prose really blossomed. They met in their second year of college. She was studying to become a nurse, Arthur had gone with engineering. Easy money he thought. She would read any and all of his writing. Even the little scribbles on the sides of old math exams. She pushed him to send his writing out. She made him sit and read his work to her, anything to make sure his love for words wasn’t snuffed out in favor of mechanical parts. To Arthur, it was a dream. To be able to share something he loved so much, with the woman he loved deeply. 

But one evening, four years after they graduated college; when the roads were slippery, Arthur and Lila got into a terrible accident. One that only Arthur had partially survived. He lost many pieces of himself in that wreck. Lila for one, had not survived; and Arthur’s hands were fractured… Along with his passion for words. The words brought him no solace. Besides, trying to hold a pen or push a key was almost as excruciatingly painful as the hole he felt in his chest; at the loss of Lila. He didn’t want words, they couldn’t bring her back. The words did nothing for him. So he let them go. 

He sweeps his gaze around the room, avoiding the small cot a short distance away from the door. That was the last safe place he and Lila were together before the accident. He almost doesn’t step inside. It has the look and feel of another time. Arthur almost wonders if when he steps past the doorway, if he will somehow be transported back in time. Silently hoping that he does, Arthur takes the step forward, not realizing he’s holding his breath. 

He sighs loudly, letting his breath go as he realizes the room has remained the same. He pulls the chair away from the desk, its leg scraping against the wooden floor. Arthur sits and pushes himself toward the desk. He places his fingers against the keys of the typewriter and lets them slide down the machine slowly. Wiping the patches of dust away. He closes his eyes, hearing faint click-clacking sounds from his days of youth. The faintest smell of sweet hot chocolate greets his nose, the type Lila would bring him before she laid down and read on the cot. He opens his eyes slowly and frowns, listening for the crisp turn of a page or the soft breath of Lila asleep, but those lovely sounds don’t reach his ears. 

Small scars line the front and back of his hands. On very cold days, they ache, especially when it rains. Though they have healed considerably, they still shake. For many years after the accident it was impossible to use his hands, more so unbearable to do so. He smiles sadly as he looks at his scarred hands against the smooth cool surface of the typewriter. His fingers twitch, whether in pain or because they crave the sensation of a pen in hand, or a finger dipped against the keys, was anyone's guess. Even Arthur’s. 

He groans as he pushes the machine away, his hands instantly heat up and pulse with life. The pulsing mimics a steady beat in time with his heart.

He manages to make decent space for an one of the old notebooks and pen. Opening the notebook, he skims over his old writings. Smiling here or rolling his eyes there at the memories and words of his adolescence. Until he comes to one of the last poems he wrote, he remembers it vividly as he almost lovingly strokes the page.

It was late July. The room was suffocating with heat and dense air. Arthur remembers it was like time didn’t matter here. Like life, didn’t. It was a few months after Lila’s passing. His fractured fingers made it next to impossible to hold a pen and write, but with pain meds in his system; more than the doctor’s recommendation… Arthur had grasped a nearby pen as best he could and began to write,

July ‘94

I stay up late most nights,

Watching the shadows on the wall dance.

I stay up late most nights, 

Eyes closed as I lean, ear against the wall.

It holds the memory of you.

Threatening to spill out between the paint I’ve peeled off in search for what you’ve left behind.

For what has sunken into the walls and into the creeks of these floors.

Eyes closed as I lean, ear against the wall.

Silence greets me instead of your light laughter.

Silence.

They say it speaks louder than words.

It doesn’t.

The words are written extremely sloppy, as if by a child just learning how to hold a pen and form the shapes of letters. But Arthur can read it, these words are his after all. Arthur stares at the page before turning to a clean sheet. His hands shake now, though not because of his scarred hands but because it has been twelve years since he last wrote. Something tells him, it’s the right time now. 

March 2006

My dearest Lila,

I have been without your grace and good heart for twelve years now. There has been one love, above all others... You my darling, I have always loved you more than words. And they may spite me for this-the words, but I just thought you should know. I have not written in twelve years, and though I know this knowledge may sadden you, I hope you understand to have written without you by my side would have felt like betrayal. I return to the craft now because I'd would like to write you one last poem, my darling... 

They say we are forged from stars.

That our bodies contain atoms. 

I feel I have loved you forever.

That we share traces of our souls in one another, and that is why I still find traces of you in my heart. 

I like to think we were born from the same star.

And we found our way back to each other in this life. 

I hope to find my way to you again my darling. 

The words, my words have always been for you, and they always will. 

Arthur clears his throat and smiles, the wrinkles in his face softening and stretching. He lets the pen drop from his hand and slowly flexes his fingers, “Happy Anniversary Lila,” He whispers.