The Spill of Coffee (Episode 3)

10:05 a.m.

As the door opens, the tinkle of the wind chimes welcomes an old man.

"Morning." with a gentleman smile the old man greets Clarice. His white beard is well groomed and thick. Leaning on a crane he walks in a slow pace. He then sits by the window.

"Would you like to have some tea or coffee?" Clarice asks.

"Earl Grey with milk. Also with two pieces of double chocolate chip cookies. Thank you." His eyes curve like crescent moon, shine in the bright day light. The eye lines tell of laughter and warm smiles. The deep wrinkles carved a map on his face. 

Clarice takes out the homemade cookie mix from the fridge. She rolls the dough into pieces and places it into the oven. The sound of boiling water and the ambrosial aroma of cookies spread across the room. The old man closes his eyes as he listens to the nostalgia music from the vinyl player. 

Sometime later, Clarice pours the freshly brewed Earl Grey into a cup that has already filled with milk. She then carefully places the cookies on the saucer.

“Sir, your Earl Grey with milk and cookies.” As she serves the tea she notices that the old man is writing a letter. Very elegant penmanship, yet calm and effortless, written in a fountain pen. The strokes are soft. Perfectly rounded loops and ornamental swirls. A piece of graceful script.   

“I always have a question. Will my wife understand my handwriting?” he looks at Clarice as she is mesmerized by his handwriting.

“Did she ever complain about it in her reply?”  Clarice chuckles. 

“No. She didn’t. She passed away a few years ago.”  He looks down at the letter, quietly. 

“I am sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” He smiles. “Sit down, child. Let me tell you the story.”

Clarice pulls the wooden chair and sits next to him. 

“The letter is for your wife?” Clarice asks. 

“Yes. I write one to her every month. Then I will read to her by her grave. I guess she wouldn’t feel alone if I tell her how my life is going. It have been years since she passed away. I read poems to her every night. She loves reading poems. I could still see her in my mind, that day when I first met her in the college. Her thin and long fingers flipping over a book. The movements of her hands, soft and delicate. On our first date she wore a navy blue tea dress. It was raining and I remember we were running and laughing on the street. We were all wet from head to toe. But she said it was the best date ever. The day she passed away, I sat by her bed and held her hand. She looked at me. There’s no conversations. She gazed into my eyes and it seemed she wanted to say something. I have never seen such a contented smile on her face. Then she closed her eyes. Smiling. And she’s gone. I stood up and gave her my last kiss.”

He stops for a while.

“I miss her.”

Clarice looks at the old man face. The deep wrinkles on his face seems to have a much deeper story than she thought.

“So you write a letter to her every month?”

“At first, the nights without her were torturing. The bed was cold. No more “Good nights”. No more chats. No more whispering. Just the howling winds and the traffics on the streets and endless sobs. Whenever I went to sleep, I always hope that I could see her beside me the next morning. And every day I was just wandering around the house. Sometimes I could see her reading on the rocking chair. Or baking cakes in the kitchen. But they were just images. I couldn’t hold her anymore. Until one night, I saw her in my dream. She’s back in college. Wearing that navy blue tea dress. Running through the grass. So cheerful and carefree. I saw her eyes and her smile again. It was exactly the same as when she passed away.”

“Then I finally understood what she wanted to tell me. She told me to let go.”

“The next morning I received a letter. It was from her.” He takes out an envelope and gives it to Clarice. She opens it. 

If I could, I would never leave you alone. But please remember, I will always be there by your side. Letting go is not forgetting. But remembering without pain and grief. 

“I guess she doesn’t want to see me crying all night long.” He smiles."To remember without grief or pain, I decided to write a letter to her every month, telling her how I am doing and things in our neighborhood. Sometimes I would tell her which kind of cake or bread have I learnt to bake. I'm now learning how to bake cookies, our favorites." 

"You have been doing it for years?" Clarice asks.

"As long as I am alive. My life wouldn't be completed without her. This is the best way to remember her, to tell how I have always loved her."

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