Why I Do This
When I was a child, my aunt, the only girl in a large Italian family, had an old, manual typewriter. Whenever I’d visit, she would lug it out and let me type to my heart’s content.
It was the highlight of my visits, despite the fact that I distinctly recall my slender fingers often getting entangled in the keys while trying to pry them apart after a particularly overzealous bout of creativity.
My earliest memories of this are well before I could read, let alone spell or formulate sentences, but I would compile these stacks of paper with nonsense letters in their precise, serif font, and bring them proudly to her.
And then she would read them to me.
I’ve been struggling ever since to tell my story, and to have someone understand it the way she did.
