The old man returned with slow, careful purpose along the cobblestone path. It was clear to those who might see him pass by that a hardy strength kept his footing sure; strength wrought from years of hard labour. Indeed, it was not age or ailment that slowed his steps, but a deeply contemplative mind and spirit. As for the subject of his concentration, few knew for certain. Each morning for the last nine years he had tread the same stones, speaking to no one more than a pleasantry or two, though greeting all with a warm smile.
He would make his way down the beachside walkway and out to the end of the wharf. There he would open up the final lantern of those lining the path. That lantern is always the last one burning from the night and, prior to it going out, the man would draw a small piece of folded paper from his pocket and hold it to his forehead while whispering a few words. After this, the paper was set into the flame of the lantern and the door shut. The light would burn bright and hot for a few seconds, and then proceed to dim until it was fully extinguished.
This ritual was always immediately followed by the next of taking a seat in the small café across the park and thoughtfully stirring a large cup of tea. The cushioned chair by the window was always vacant when he arrived at the bustling little shop, and his tea was set on a small table. Alongside the cup would be an ornate creamer and spoon from a child’s tea set. As he stirred, he would stare out across the ocean in reflective silence.
“Do you ever drink it?”
Startled, the man turned in his chair to meet the steady, curious gaze of a young man. “Would you be referring to my tea?”
“Yes sir. In the last few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve only ever seen you stir it, so I became curious. Do you ever actually drink it?”
“Sometimes, though such days are becoming increasingly rare.”
“May I join you?” At a nod, the young man pulled up a chair to sit. “If you don’t mind me asking, if today was one of those days, why would you be drinking the tea?”
At the old man’s responsive sigh, a large hand belonging to a hulking man in a little apron squeezed caution into the young man’s shoulder. “Is all right, Simon?”
The old man smiled appreciatively. “Yes John. All is well, thank you. I don’t mind a little story-telling now and then. Please give my thanks and love to Molly also for the tea. God bless you both for how you watch out for me.”
“I’ll do that.” With a handshake, and a gentle pat on a slightly throbbing shoulder, John moved back about his business with other customers.
“Well, lad…”
“Please, call me Monty.”
“Well, Monty, I don’t particularly enjoy breakfast tea. It was always strong coffee that got me through the work days. However, this tea holds some very important memories for me.”
“I would assume those memories would also be tied to the tea set then?”
Simon lifted the creamer, a pale blue dotted with pink roses, to Monty. “Indeed they would. It is my granddaughter’s set, you see, and she would frequently ask me to share tea, her favourite being breakfast tea. It was the last enjoyable thing we did together before the first wave of bombs fell.” The old man returned his misty gaze to the oceanfront as his gentle words settled heavily on the young man’s heart. “All happened so quickly after that. We grabbed what we could and rushed to the nearest shelter. In the panic, my granddaughter left her tea set, which I had made for her. She was heart-broken, but there was no going back. So many people had lost friends and family, such trinkets were the least of my concerns. The following morning, they boarded a vessel from the wharf down below, which was to take them to a larger ship headed to North America. I wanted them to be safe, but I had a duty to my country to remain and support our soldiers, so I sent them on alone…” After a long pause, Simon wiped his eyes with a cloth and met Monty’s gaze once again, “It’s been twelve long years, and I’ve not heard from them since.”
Monty wiped his own tears as he returned the creamer to the table. “And the tea set?”
“I returned to our home after the war was over. Or, rather, what was left of it. The only things that escaped the destruction were the creamer and the spoon. All else was damaged beyond recovery. I slowly rebuilt the house over the years in hopes that when my girls returned home, it would be the same as when they left. During that time, my dear friends, John and Molly, gave me a room to sleep, and cared for this little creamer and spoon for me, setting it out with a cup of Emily’s favourite tea every morning at this table. It has now become a meaningful tradition for us. To answer your question, I drink the tea when I feel the years fading my memories. The smell and taste always take me right back to how it was before that great evil.”
“What about the lantern on the wharf? May I ask where that comes in?”
“Well, that gets a little deeper than just memory. There is an old legend in my family that if a loved one has been lost to the sea, your words can still reach them. If you write them a message on paper and burn it at the water’s edge, the ashes will carry out across the waves to where they rest, and their spirit will hear your voice. Now, I don’t believe in such spiritual superstition, but I do find it an effective way to pray. Burning the paper gives up any control I think I have and leaves it in God’s hands. Every day I ask that I might see my girls again, whether in this life or the next.”
After a few minutes of silence Simon rose and shook Monty’s hand. “I must be off to work now, though I’m reluctant to do so. Thank you for sitting with me and sharing in my memories. Somehow, they now feel even stronger.” The two men then parted ways with a swift farewell.
* * * * *
Two days later, Monty found Simon putting the finishing touches on the stone wall edging his property. After an exchange of morning pleasantries, the young man introduced a young woman he had brought along. “Simon, I’d love for you to meet my fiancée Emily.”
As the old man met her strong, gentle gaze, his tools dropped to the ground.
“I’m home Papa.”
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