“Sir, I know you don’t want to do this,” A young woman said to me.  “But you have to.” 
 “I don’t have to do anything. Miss.”  I said my voice shaking.   I could feel my face turning as red as a tomato, and my whole body was exhausted. 
“I thought you would say that but I brought you a notepad and a pen, Mr. O‘Hare.”  She said with kindness.  “We really do need you to do this.”           Tears dripped down my face as I realized that this was the first time in a long time that someone had seemed to care about what I had to say, and I was not a child-like creature in an old man’s body.  At first, I had been apprehensive, but I knew I wanted to do this now…I felt important.  I held the notebook and it felt like an old friend.  I took the black pen and started to write with a shaky right hand, this letter:

I am not a good writer, so bear with me. The thing about writing as a tool and a piece of paper is this: it is real. You can’t do anything else with it but write words and draw. You can’t use social media or call a friend. It is made of wood, and lead and things that feel real…smell real…These days technology is doing that writing for us. It writes our blogs, movies, articles, and even novels. Humans are worthless and this is a DAMN shame. I do not really know much about other languages besides English…I didn’t do the best in school, honestly. I do think that your native tongue feels like home to each one of us. Written language is more than just a piece of paper and pencil -- it is humanity. It’s the Bible, it’s the Odyssey, its freak’n’ Harry Bladder and the Chamber of Potties or whatever it’s called. It is humanity at its finest and at its absolute worst. I feel as though we are losing a part of our culture and ourselves and it is not something we should stop doing. It gave voice to the voiceless and shared love; hope; happiness; fear; death; it showed us we aren’t alone. No one will listen to an old man, though. I am ready to die, and a beautiful art of all humanity dies with me.

                                Yours Truly,

                                 Mr. O’ Hare


        PS:  It is actually Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  

“Thanks, sir.” The woman said while trying to hide her tears by covering her face with her blonde hair. She loved what he had written…even, though it was not exactly what she was hoping for; it was beautiful in a way only a human could have written. “You’re welcome…thanks….I need to get some rest now….my old bones are tired.” I said to her. She left the room quietly and I was lying down in my little nursing home room, attempting to sleep.
“Who were you talking to?” A concerned voice asked. “A woman…I am the last person to write by hand.” I said. “It’s 2015, people still write by hand, Mike.” The voice said. Then everything went quiet.