Warm Memories of Cold Times

He was in a coffee shop late one night. He was alone and the shop was mostly deserted. It was not very late, actually, but it was late in the year and so the sun sank early and darkness filled the sky such that days felt quite late as early as the dinner hour.

He was seated in a booth by the window far from the door.

This was the kind of coffee shop that had a bar counter that ran the entire length of the restaurant at which you could sit on a stool and talk with the cook. It was the kind of shop that had coat hooks by all of the booths and if it should rain there would be slippery puddles everywhere for which the waitresses would have to be careful. It was the kind of place where the same people always seemed to be working and they would greet you by name when you entered; that is, if they knew your name (which was quite likely) and you seemed the type to want to be greeted when you entered. But it was also the kind of shop that respected the anonymity of its more particular patrons... cherished is perhaps a more suitable word. It was the kind of shop that brewed coffee only (regular coffee throughout the day until closing time, and decaffeinated coffee in the evenings). And so, when you walked in and called out for a coffee (or a 'decaf' as the case may be) you were never left to decide which of a hundred varieties of coffee you wanted, whether hot or iced, sweet, frothy, or flavoured, which could sometimes take a very long time and result in needless lineups. It was the kind of shop that, on a morning fifty years ago, would have been filled with freshly-shaved men straight from the barber shop across the street who had each paid a nickel for their shave.

There he sat, looking out, not looking at anything in particular and not thinking anything in particular.

His attraction to coffee can be explained and justified simply. As a boy, it was his responsibility to stoke the fire on winter mornings. Once the main room and the kitchen were warmed and the wood stove was calling out with loud 'pings' of expansion, his family would emerge from under their blankets where they had remained warm (except for their noses and possibly their toes). He would make a cup of coffee and wrap his hands around the mug and sit as close as he could to the fire and look into the flames, not looking at anything in particular and not thinking about anything in particular. It happened often that the first person out of bed and into the living room would startle him. Eventually, he took on the responsibility of making coffee for everyone. In the winter, the heat from his fire would attract his family from the comparative coolness of their bedrooms and in the summer it was the smell of his coffee that woke them and brought them to him.


He very much appreciated those mornings (and still does, when he thinks back on them) for he otherwise had very little gravity.

he sat in the coffee shop not unlike he had as a boy and adolescent: a little hunched, his hands around his mug, looking to his right through the window.

And then, from outside the shop, a figure approached the window. Much like on those winter mornings he was startled by the sudden presence of someone in his orbit and he was temporarily flattered. The person looking directly at him, or seemed to, her head bent slightly to one side and smiled. She looked him up and down, evaluating him. He did not recognize this person but he waved (uncertainly) so not to be rude. The person did not respond, and he thought badly of it at first until he considered that the person could likely not see him, but was looking at her own reflection. She smiled again and ran her fingers through her hair. Now satisfied with the fall of her hair, she turned to go.

He smiled now. He smiled for her, and he smiled at himself. He smiled at the nostalgic recollection of boyhood memories come to life. He even smiled at his coffee. and he turned and smiled at the cook who had been watching him and had seen him wave at the girl.

He stood and said aloud "I think I should go after her" and the cook said "I think you should too." The cook seemed to know what he had been feeling when the girl approached from out of the darkness. The cook did not say anything as he watched him go, but he had thought to say "I hope you have a good evening, Mr.Hamilton."

Mr. Hamilton is one whose anonymity is respected and cherished.

Washed Away

With a sinking heart he turned on his old computer. He turned on the radio and set it to the classical station and that calmed him a little. And he was most relieved when he saw that he had no waiting correspondence; computers and their virtual spawn left him feeling anxious.

He shut off his computer, picked up his good pen and sat down in front of a small pile of stationery.

Dear Christine, he began. He paused there, and then thoughtfully added est to the end of "Dear". Yes, Dearest Christine, he thought to himself. He looked down at his page and admitted that the two words were cramped too close together now that he had made a correction to his salutation. He picked up the page and dropped it in the bin beside him without crumpling it. he no longer crumpled his failed drafts, and hadn't for a long time.

His letter was most efficiently written, taking up the entire surface, front and back, of two sheets. And it did not sound rushed or forced at the end to finish so efficiently either. He almost signed off "With Warmth," but thought better of it and wrote "Affectionately," instead (he would have had to restart otherwise).

He could wait to deposit the letter, as the mail was not picked up until the following morning. But he needed a stamp, which was an excuse to leave the house, so he made a short list of other things to do and prepared to go out.

The phone rang just as he was about t close the door behind him and he went back to answer it. Now that he had made a list of errands he kindly declined to participate in a telephone survey. He did consent that the young woman could call him back at a more convenient time which happened to be later this evening, after his dinner and Jeopardy, around 7.35pm.

Halfway to the post office it began to raid - gently for a short moment and then in great earnest. He decided to turn back. He would turn back and tomorrow he would ask the postman if he would accept the letter along with the exact money for postage: just like the used to do in the older days.

His short list, which fell from his pocket in his rush to escape the rain, lay against a storm drain: held in place against the grating by the force of the running water. The ink had completely faded from the sheet within moments of being dropped and soon the paper will be completely dissolved.

A Tragic Episode

It was not without a feeling of anxiety that he left his home; for like the flash of a camera he hurried away stopping not for neighbours nor their smiling children. Those he past felt but the shadow of a presence and saw, upon turning around - with furrowed brows in most cases - the tail of his long coat struggling to keep up with his shrinking figure. Those with good vision could identify him only by his hat (which was being secured in place against his determination by his left arm, whilst his right arm pumped furiously back and for like the piston of an automobile engine). For the many with poorer vision, or still for those reading or smoking on front balconies not paying full attention, or for those busy inside looking out through front-room windows, his usually recognizable posture and gait are unfamiliar and his passing becomes the subject of much gossip. Before long even those who thought they recognized his hat are filled with doubt.

As the dinner hour approaches and he is yet to return, radios are tuned to the sports broadcast and the incident is displaced entirely. No one notices him sulking past, which is just as well for him (and for the game of baseball as well) for he had tears in his eyes.

When he came home, he was walking even slower than usual and he seemed to be lost in his long coat.

The Remains of the Moment

Not everyone takes the time to appreciate the everyday of every day. Under intense scrutiny, the commonplace can become quite unique. Like with a single snowflake, indifinitely different from any other; it is only too easy to stand back and only see a snowbank. Time is not lost to one who walks slowly to work.

The othe morning, still dopey with sleep to want to get up, he watched a bar of sunlight on the wall slowly and gradually descend as the sun rose.

Yesterday, during lunch, he watched a skeletal leaf be tossed around by a funnel of wind. And he waited and wondered -- all the while eating absently -- whether it would ever escape and touch the ground again so that it could rest and catch its breath.

Attending and celebrating the Easter Vigil mass, he smiled as he considered how the assembled parish rose and stood as though an ocean wave was slowly moving underneath the pews from the front to the back. And he prayed the Our Father silently so that he could hear the assonance of a thousand voices speak out the last stanza.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our tresspasses,
As we forgive those who tresspassed against us,
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil.
Amen.

It takes a certain focus, or perhaps a lack thereof, he thought to himself. And then he sighed and finished his pasta.

The Miracle of Birth

Miracle of Birth

&/
Y ~
(,) ~
.
@
XY
Meet Benjamin!

The Indian Boy Tornado Man

Tornado Man

I stand alone under a darkened sky
and the landscape is flat and infinite
and the saw grass is blue and still

Suddenly i start to grow smaller
smaller and smaller still
until i am so far away that i can no longer see myself

Saw Grass begins to rustle --
and i cannot find myself
and i can feel the rough texture of Grass against my leg

Lightning strikes soundlessly in the distance
and Saw Grass begins to dance violently
and Saw Grass anchors me until the wind passes

Saw Grass is bent at the waist catching his breath
and if i look up i can see clear blue acceptance
and i am certain that i am being watched

The wind starts up again
and I allow myself to dance with Saw Grass
and I rise to be accepted

Never Growing Up

When he taught himself to shave he was so scared to cut himself that he held his left hand and arm horizontally across his stomach. His arm and stomach were tensed and flexed. Now, when he shaves -- out of habit -- his left arm and hand lay limply across his stomach as though there were a ledge holding them up. He supposes, if he should cut myself, his arm and stomach would tense up like before and support him.

I always feel like I'm faster after I shave; a faster walker and a much fast runner.

You have such skill

You have such skill at learning the all so fast. You will surpass me before tomorrow is over, by far, and then I will come to you and ask you to teach me it all. Please have pitty on your teacher. Because if no, you will wear the suite of black, and strike me with the blade of light, and my body will be nothing more than incense, fanning East in the wind.

There comes a time when we all learn from our children.