[ WP ] You 've found a magic typewriter , and everything you type will come to life .

# # The Legacy Box 
 
 The box sits on my kitchen table for two weeks before I can bring myself to open it. 
 
 The cardboard, complete with dented corners and bound around with strapping tape, seems too mundane to contain something as expansive and intangible as a legacy. 
 
 The box smells musty and damp and immediately it's like I'm in my grandparents cellar - the many summers pulling popsicles from the chest freezer down there, the many winters getting potatoes from the bin for dinner. 
 
 I use my house key to slit the tape on the top of the box and fold back the flaps, still oddly reluctant to see what was inside. 
 
 Closed, it could be anything. Open... It means that my grandmother sent me my grandfather's most prized possession. And that means that he is dead. Tomorrow is Sunday and my bi-weekly call home. Gram will ask about it. 
 
 It's funny that the mystery contents of the box feels more like an affirmation of his passing than the funeral was. 
 
 The heavy dark metal of an antique manual typewriter is nestled in crumpled brown paper, looking for all the world like an old cash register. It startles me into a laugh. 
 
 My grandfather was a brilliant crime reporter for many years, actually helping to solve many complicated investigations and getting gruesome scoops many hours before his rivals. 
 
 I have no doubt that this machine is where he first worked long into the night, composing his articles to send to his editor for the early edition. I pictured him hunched over this machine, cold coffee at his elbow and a cigarette in his mouth. 
 
 The body is well-cared for and and rust-free. The white enamel keys are bright and unchipped. Gold lettering proudly declares that it's a'Royal Standard'. 
 
 I lift it out, the weight awkward and ungainly, and notice a card rolled onto the cylinder, the edge just peeping out. 
 
 I roll the card up and pluck it out. It's yellowed on the edges, obviously having been there for years. 
 
 My dearest grandson, 
 
 Always type your dreams and they will always come true. 
 
 With love, Papa 
 
 I hold back tears with my eyes stinging and pack the typewriter back into the box. I tuck the flaps together to hold it shut and leave the card on the table. I carry the heavy burden of my legacy to the closet. 
 
 I put it on the floor and slide it to the back, next to the Christmas tree and the winter boots. 
 
 On the way back to the kitchen, I grab my laptop. 
 
 I pour myself another cup of coffee and fumble the tape from the junk drawer. 
 
 At the table, I stir sugar into my cup and tape the card to the lid of my computer. 
 
 I wake the laptop from sleep mode and open a new document. 

