Strange Ways

“You humans mourn in strange ways”

the voice wakes me from my dream

of backspacing to the beginning

on the old Underwood typewriter

my mother once used –

and I think, yes, how strange

to focus on the keys my mother tapped,

mostly the words of my father

so clear there was no

room for interpretation,

but the rhythm was

her domain alone,

where she elicited a pulse

from each word she typed,

black keys, white letters,

clickety, clickety,

white paper, black letters,

the words clear on the page,

yet still she would search

for just the right key —

but to what or to where

she never would say.