My emotional attachment to my old baby-blue Smith-Corona portable sums it all up.  Nostalgia means yearning for home.  So, this can’t be nostalgic because our yearnings then were all in the opposite direction—the road, escape adrenalin.  The rooms we occupied!  Man, I could type back then, the hands working fast as the brain. Paper was always the problem, wasn’t it, old buddy?  You never complained of the cold.  I never had to plug you in or clear your memory.  All-in-one keyboard and printer, you never once questioned me.  I did drop you down that metal stairway to the loft, but you bounced and forgave me (except for the carriage-return bell).  You did not like carbon paper sets.  Who could afford xerox?    I left you in that Harlem pawnshop, headed west.  I meant to return.  Just hoping you are safe in a museum someplace.