20.20

The beach was vacant.

The sand, bare of footprints.

 The water, cold from isolation.

Calvin stroked the knobs protruding from his steel-framed typewriter. Slowly, he pressed his frail fingers against the row of six weighted keys. Click. Click.Click-click-click-click. Click. He prepared for the next sentence. Calvin paused while simultaneously holding down two of the keys. He released a deep sigh. His mind was drowning in thoughts of his words no longer being accepted. What if his manuscript didn’t read the same? What if he’d lost his descriptive touch? How would he illustrate a scene on paper that he could no longer depict with his own eyes? He removed his darkened glasses and attempted to lie them on the table. Landing short of the edge, the glasses fell to the floor.

“Here, Honey.” He felt a gentle hand brush against his forearm. His wife placed the glasses behind the typewriter. “I’m going to leave them back here, out of the way.”

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t help me see. They don’t do anything besides hide what people already know.”

She stood behind him, gently massaging his shoulders, “I know it’s difficult. I’m not going to pretend I understand.”

“I just don’t know if I can do this anymore, LaToya. How am I supposed to remember all the things I’ve forgotten? Red, orange, circular, oval, close, far…the details are one big blur.”

LaToya stood in front of the kitchen window. She watched a group of squirrels scurry up a large, oak tree. She peered at the cars passing in the distance, their bodies becoming the same blur.

Calvin sat starring towards the center of the room, “It’s like, I have a harder time finding inspiration. It’s so dark. Before, all it took was the smile of a child, a funny-shaped cloud in the sky, or even a rude gesture from the neighbor. Everyone and everything could lead to a great story idea.”

“Maybe you need to find a new source of inspiration.” She unlocked the windows and pulled them forward. A cool breeze filled the kitchen. In normal routine, she announced, “Overcast. Thick clouds. The trees are slightly swaying. Probably be like this until the morning. The weather report was spot on today.”

“Thanks. No sign of sunshine, huh?”

“Doesn’t look like it, Honey.”

Calvin slid his hands across the typewriter. He grabbed the front handle, pulling it closer towards his body. He played with the knobs until they no longer rotated.

A soft hand landed on top of his, “I’m going to go back upstairs and finish sorting things. I’m glad to see you working again. If nothing else comes out of this, at least, you’re starting your healing process. I’m proud of you.” His wife kissed him on the cheek.

He played with the space bar, resting his fingers on the keys, pushing it several times then backspacing, over and over. He created a rhythmic sound with his typing. He noticed this typewriter was sleeker than the prior. It felt glossy. The keys were heavier, yet smoother and pleasing to the touch. They were simple and easy to distinguish. Every button served a purpose.

It’d only been a year since he’d learned how to use the slim, Perkins machine. The accident was three years ago, but Calvin delayed the learning process. He wasn’t ready to deal with his new reality. He’d given up on writing. What good were words like beautiful, picturesque, and enchanting, if he couldn’t see the real image? But, the fire was still there. Small, smoky, smothered in debris, the flame remained lit.

He continued playing with the keys, pressing and deleting. He pushed the side knobs forward and backward. Suddenly, the noise paused as Calvin’s ears fixated on the window. He heard the chirping of a White-Throated Sparrow landing on the ledge. The bird whistled in sequence, then quickly began chirping in another sequence. He went back to whistling again, repeating this pattern for what seemed like hours. The bird’s continuous sounds became a morning soundtrack. Calvin found refuge in the bird’s song. He listened to the depth of the chirp. He studied the pitch of the whistle. He was amazed at the bird’s consistency in repeating the same melodic sounds in the same melodic manner. It was as if the bird’s only itinerary for the day was to prop on the ledge and sing. He had no other agenda.

                                                                                               ∞

A week went by without further visits from Singing Sparrow, as Calvin called it. Each morning he’d open the window and wait, only to find the kitchen growing eerie quiet. He sat at his typewriter in hopes of inspiration.

Calvin’s wife entered the kitchen, “Still working on the same story?”

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“Interesting.”

“Well, I have ideas, but I just don’t know which direction to go with them.”

She was curious, “Ideas like what?”

“There’s this bird. It was on the ledge about a week ago. There was something about it. something about its diligence, its need to sing and chirp. It hung around for days. But now it’s gone. It just disappeared and never came back.”

“It was probably a Sparrow. I saw a couple of nests in the neighbor’s yard. They’re obnoxious,” she complained.

“I wish it’d come back. I don’t know, I was starting to like the little guy. I kind of miss the noise. It was the one source of inspiration I’d been able to find since- “

“Maybe he’ll show up. How’d it sound?”

Calvin perched his lips and made a small chirping sound. He held each chirp for a short, but precise amount of time in order to mimic the call of his new, winged-friend. He whistled in high pitch sequences of three. Each call echoed throughout the kitchen.

His wife, astonished by the sound, stood wide-eyed in the middle of the room. She interrupted him, “Calvin, you’re not going to believe this. But the bird. A bird. There’s a bird…on the ledge.” She pointed towards the window.

“Get out of here,” he responded in amusement.

“No, really. It flew over the minute you started making all those bird calls.” I’m going to open the window.

“Don’t. He’ll fly away. Just leave it.” Calvin continued whistling, then chirping in the same patterned sequence.

His wife heard a muffled sound coming from the window. The bird was responding! Against his wishes, she snuck behind Calvin and headed towards the ledge. She unlocked the window and slowly pulled it forward. The bird flew off, landing on the branch of a nearby tree. She immediately regretted her actions.

Calvin’s whistling stopped, “Is it still there?”

Disappointed, she hesitated to respond.

Just as his wife made her way back in the kitchen, the bird landed on the ledge again.

“Actually, it is. I’m going to leave you two alone. I think you’ve found your inspiration.”