As the day drug through and when I felt as if my brain could no longer handle the monotony, the candles finished setting and were ready to be cut apart and trimmed for sale. I gathered the delivery list from the hand-sketched notations of my father and set to harvest the typewriter from a cabinet under the display room counter across the hall.
My father never accepted anything more than his hands, but I loved the tactile sensation and the soft click-click-click the typewriter made as I transcribed. I took a fresh piece of paper out from another cabinet -- this one with a shelf for it -- and loaded it through the platen, weaving it through the