Charlie

Charlie has made a fire in the dark green enamel wood stove. Three chairs are pulled up around it and to the left, there sits a formal couch covered with worn green velvet. Behind the couch is a wall of books; red, yellow and blue bindings with gold lettering fill the shelves. Propped up in front of them are black and white photographs of his family; of parents and grandparents and two smiling boys in flannel shirts and overalls blinking in the bright sun.

He wears sneakers. The laces thread through the first four loops on each foot, frayed from being tied and retied over the years. There are splatters of paint on the white canvas, not from the pale watercolors he uses to paint landscapes of marsh, estuary and vast beach. These paint drips are dark brown, a result of a recent house project, staining a newly built porch most likely.

His shirt is pale blue, his pants tan. He holds a brown bottle of beer by the neck as he gesticulates with the other hand, telling a story. Behind him on a desk is the grey Royal typewriter. Charlie is one of two friends who still sends typewritten letters. I save them. Partly because he is a keen observer and sees the world with gentle humor and mostly because I realize how much I miss receiving typewritten letters. I love the uneven ink- the pale a from overuse, the solid q. The letter closes with his signature written with fountain pen in watery blue, "Best, Charlie."

After dinner, we walk outside and look up at the dark Ipswich night. The milky way stretches from one side of the horizon to the other. He points to the center of it, we look up, crane our necks and squint. "There's my favorite constellation" he says quietly.

"Can you see it? It's a bird with wings."