He was sitting in his reclining chair, staring at the garden in front of his porch stretching off into the bushes and weeds. In between the crumbling patches of dirt and drying leaves snaked a hose which still ran with water, thinning into the soil. The fence teetered all around the garden like a protective elder who has seen it grow and has grown old with it. And when the wind sprang up, a strange sweet smell erupted out of nowhere and seemed to ask me to enter. I was twenty seven, about to leave my town for a job in another city - a bigger one. Old Man Jonathan was a whopping ninety three, but from his expression you had no way of telling. At most, he looked a comfortable fifty.
"Come in, Richards."
"Morning, Mr. Jonathan. I came to say goodbye."
"Leaving town, I hear."
"Tomorrow, yes."
"Sit down, sit down. Tell me about your new job."
"Oh, it's nothing much", I said, as I swept away the leaves from the only other couch in the garden. "It's a job maintaining a power station. You know the kind. Night shifts and paperbacks."
"You like reading, don't you?", he said, old fingers lighting his pipe.
"Oh, very much, sir."
"Didn't you wish you could write for a living? I remember you telling me that a while ago."
The only other times I had visited him was some five years ago — back then I used to frequent his home a lot. It was a much cleaner, much more colorful place then. Mrs. Jonathan had been alive. I used to come over with a book, maybe borrow a few from his stack inside the living room. He would agree every time, with a mock grudging expression on his face. But inwardly I'm sure he felt glad the books were being put to some use after all, instead of yellowing out inside their cheap glass cases. I had had plenty of friends with parents with a strict you-can-look-but-don't-touch policy that extended even to books. I never understood the point of keeping books for show.
"That was a long time ago, Mr. Jonathan."
"Is it now?", he said, an eyebrow squinting. This wasn't his mock-grudge expression, I calculated secretly. Strange how memories storm in, and how vividly.
"Yes. You had geraniums in that corner."
"I don't anymore?"
Poor Mr. Jonathan. "No, sir. It's a bald patch of mud. I think some animal's been digging there."
"Oh, that must be old Tom. Little rascal. I let him out early today morning. Whining like the earth was about to fall apart."
"Sir, do you mean your dog Tom?"
"Who else?", Old Man Jon chuckled, between wisps of smoke drifting up his face. "He's been quite a handful since we adopted him, I can tell you that much."
"He...he died five years ago, Sir."
"Now wait just a second, Richards!", Jonathan sat up, visibly disgruntled and angry. "What do you mean he died five years ago! There he is, right as rain, coming up the walkway!"
I looked to see and there he was: the dog I used to play with almost every Saturday afternoon. That same patch of white under the neck. That same limp where he had been hit by a car. He trotted up to me like a miniature pony and nuzzled against my leg.
"Why, he...he looks exactly like Old Tim!"
"That's because he is Old Tim, Richards! What the devil's gotten into you, lad?"
So the rumors were true, he'd clearly lost it for good. All of last week people had seen visitors ambling about his place like so many ghosts. They'd started worrying something was up with him. Ever since Mrs. Jonathan passed away, he'd stayed mostly by himself. No relatives to speak of. Who had been these people, everyone wondered. Scheming family members come to sniff out money because he was keeping ill? That seemed like the most likely solution. The visitors looked vaguely familiar, and some of them had kids. The kids seemed to stay on some days.
"Look, Mr. Jonathan", I explained. "I was worried that I would leave without saying goodbye, and..."
"And never see me again?"
I grew red in the face. "What I meant was, I was concerned about your health."
"And guilty that you never came all this time?"
"That...that too. I did so much like visiting you as a kid."
"What changed, I wonder", he said again, chuckling to himself.
The wind had changed again, mellowing into a soft summer breeze that seemed to tug at my memories. Funny how the wind never seems to change. Winter does come around later nowadays, but mostly the air always seems able and willing to bridge past with present: the one sole constant in an ageing city.
"Well, let me answer for you. Nothing did. You have come. Ever so often."
I was a little taken aback. "What...what do you mean?"
"I picked up a few things from my travels before I settled down for good. A few...abilities, if you like. One of them was to revisit times I liked in my head. The catch was that the memories needed to have mattered, and I can tell you this, boy, that you don't have much say in. Memories happen. If they matter, they matter. You can't make them matter, anymore than you can make someone fall in love with books by making them read everyday."
I was already eyeing the old stacks which peeked out of the living room, through the door that stood ajar temptingly. I could already identify a few of the paperbacks.
"So this ability of mine lets me live out those memories with more clarity than most people can. It's an ancient technique I picked up from some ancient people not from...well, certainly not from anywhere around here."
I had entered the room, the old floor creaking with every step of the way. The wind had turned something angry but soothing, in spite. So few storms here. There were so many when I used to come visit. Gave me an excuse to enter and start gaping at the shelves.
"And I do that ever so often. It never grows old, even though, you know...", he smiled again, "I do. And so does everyone else."
The sky had darkened to a sinister shade of grey, and it started drizzling a little. Tom, or whatever the new dog was called, came running inside, dirtying the carpet as usual.
"Well, looks like rain. Stay a while, boy. Let me show you a few of the books I got last week. There's one on pirates. I know how much you like pirates. Here comes the missus now, just in time."
Mrs. Jonathan came in from the kitchen, beaming. "Why, if it isn't Gregory Richards himself!"
"Hello, Mrs. Jonathan", I said, cheerfully, as always. "Mind if I stick around for sometime?"
"Come in, Richards."
"Morning, Mr. Jonathan. I came to say goodbye."
"Leaving town, I hear."
"Tomorrow, yes."
"Sit down, sit down. Tell me about your new job."
"Oh, it's nothing much", I said, as I swept away the leaves from the only other couch in the garden. "It's a job maintaining a power station. You know the kind. Night shifts and paperbacks."
"You like reading, don't you?", he said, old fingers lighting his pipe.
"Oh, very much, sir."
"Didn't you wish you could write for a living? I remember you telling me that a while ago."
The only other times I had visited him was some five years ago — back then I used to frequent his home a lot. It was a much cleaner, much more colorful place then. Mrs. Jonathan had been alive. I used to come over with a book, maybe borrow a few from his stack inside the living room. He would agree every time, with a mock grudging expression on his face. But inwardly I'm sure he felt glad the books were being put to some use after all, instead of yellowing out inside their cheap glass cases. I had had plenty of friends with parents with a strict you-can-look-but-don't-touch policy that extended even to books. I never understood the point of keeping books for show.
"That was a long time ago, Mr. Jonathan."
"Is it now?", he said, an eyebrow squinting. This wasn't his mock-grudge expression, I calculated secretly. Strange how memories storm in, and how vividly.
"Yes. You had geraniums in that corner."
"I don't anymore?"
Poor Mr. Jonathan. "No, sir. It's a bald patch of mud. I think some animal's been digging there."
"Oh, that must be old Tom. Little rascal. I let him out early today morning. Whining like the earth was about to fall apart."
"Sir, do you mean your dog Tom?"
"Who else?", Old Man Jon chuckled, between wisps of smoke drifting up his face. "He's been quite a handful since we adopted him, I can tell you that much."
"He...he died five years ago, Sir."
"Now wait just a second, Richards!", Jonathan sat up, visibly disgruntled and angry. "What do you mean he died five years ago! There he is, right as rain, coming up the walkway!"
I looked to see and there he was: the dog I used to play with almost every Saturday afternoon. That same patch of white under the neck. That same limp where he had been hit by a car. He trotted up to me like a miniature pony and nuzzled against my leg.
"Why, he...he looks exactly like Old Tim!"
"That's because he is Old Tim, Richards! What the devil's gotten into you, lad?"
So the rumors were true, he'd clearly lost it for good. All of last week people had seen visitors ambling about his place like so many ghosts. They'd started worrying something was up with him. Ever since Mrs. Jonathan passed away, he'd stayed mostly by himself. No relatives to speak of. Who had been these people, everyone wondered. Scheming family members come to sniff out money because he was keeping ill? That seemed like the most likely solution. The visitors looked vaguely familiar, and some of them had kids. The kids seemed to stay on some days.
"Look, Mr. Jonathan", I explained. "I was worried that I would leave without saying goodbye, and..."
"And never see me again?"
I grew red in the face. "What I meant was, I was concerned about your health."
"And guilty that you never came all this time?"
"That...that too. I did so much like visiting you as a kid."
"What changed, I wonder", he said again, chuckling to himself.
The wind had changed again, mellowing into a soft summer breeze that seemed to tug at my memories. Funny how the wind never seems to change. Winter does come around later nowadays, but mostly the air always seems able and willing to bridge past with present: the one sole constant in an ageing city.
"Well, let me answer for you. Nothing did. You have come. Ever so often."
I was a little taken aback. "What...what do you mean?"
"I picked up a few things from my travels before I settled down for good. A few...abilities, if you like. One of them was to revisit times I liked in my head. The catch was that the memories needed to have mattered, and I can tell you this, boy, that you don't have much say in. Memories happen. If they matter, they matter. You can't make them matter, anymore than you can make someone fall in love with books by making them read everyday."
I was already eyeing the old stacks which peeked out of the living room, through the door that stood ajar temptingly. I could already identify a few of the paperbacks.
"So this ability of mine lets me live out those memories with more clarity than most people can. It's an ancient technique I picked up from some ancient people not from...well, certainly not from anywhere around here."
I had entered the room, the old floor creaking with every step of the way. The wind had turned something angry but soothing, in spite. So few storms here. There were so many when I used to come visit. Gave me an excuse to enter and start gaping at the shelves.
"And I do that ever so often. It never grows old, even though, you know...", he smiled again, "I do. And so does everyone else."
The sky had darkened to a sinister shade of grey, and it started drizzling a little. Tom, or whatever the new dog was called, came running inside, dirtying the carpet as usual.
"Well, looks like rain. Stay a while, boy. Let me show you a few of the books I got last week. There's one on pirates. I know how much you like pirates. Here comes the missus now, just in time."
Mrs. Jonathan came in from the kitchen, beaming. "Why, if it isn't Gregory Richards himself!"
"Hello, Mrs. Jonathan", I said, cheerfully, as always. "Mind if I stick around for sometime?"
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