Just a Little Tap

A magical thing happened yesterday. I sat next to my son on the couch as he typed his first college paper. It’s a long, 10-page doozy on Jane Goodall’s book, In the Shadow of Man. Mostly I’m there for support, to light the proverbial fire under his keyster, to be the steerer in this new adventure, but as I sat, reading my bright yellow copy of You Are A Badass by Jen Sincero, I heard it.

It was him typing. The click of fingers, the keys. That soundless echo, that little flow. There was, at first, a faint connection, like a lantern in a dark tunnel. Maybe a small tunnel for mice, even perhaps next to a curving river, kind of like in Ratatouille, dark and craggy and drawn infinitely better than real. It wasn’t bright, just a soft tinkle, as if there was a smooth silver bell on that lantern, and I felt my head cock so that my left ear could bring the sound closer, place it.

It was the hum.

I haven’t felt it in so long.

That interest in words, the desire for reading, writing, and imagining swooped in like a long, lost dog, suddenly appearing, perhaps you see only the profile of his face first, or a glimpse of his tail and you don’t dare think, ”could he be back?” because that would be way too much to gain and lose again.

But there it was, that feeling along with all the companion possibilities that burble in beside it.

Suddenly, I felt free. Untethered. Like helium balloons were lifting me up and I could get a deep breath.

I’m not sure now, in hindsight, why this all came crashing into my psyche. I mean, I type daily and I often hear my daughter typing. I hear other typing—mostly clacky typing that is, frankly, annoying.

Why at this moment did my sleeping neuron shift groggily and wake from hibernation? Did our minds align? Did we sort of sync up and suddenly, that one decrepit neuron, long unused, dusty, and weedy, say, ”Okay, I’ve got an idea?”

Could it be the telepathy of a nearby human and the similarity between us?

Or is that too whoo whoo?

I guess I’ll never know, but I’m fine with that—as long as my typing fingers are happy, I’m good.