I took my mother’s typewriter down tonight and tried to write this story. Once I’d cleaned the dust off, I slid in a sheet of A4 and tested the keys. The heads left nothing but dusty impressions on the page. Determined to extract something meaningful from the typewriter, I changed tack.
I took out a legal pad and pen. For the next several hours, I held the spool up to the light and read it in reverse. I noted down every letter, punctuation mark and space in order as I went, until the pad was full. By dawn, I had reconstructed the last letter my mother had ever typed, and copied it into a note on my phone.
The letter was headed:
“Catholic Diocese of Ballarat,”
And began:
“To whom it may concern.”
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Broken Machines 