It was a hot summer evening and they were both wearing their best clothes because of an important dinner party in honor of the English ambassador. We always had guests over at our home in London, even though we weren't rich by any means. My father was an architect who designed railway stations and other public buildings. He was very good at his job, which meant he could live comfortably but not extravagantly.
After he died, my mother sold off most of our family possessions. This was a wise decision, given how little money was coming in from my father's pension. But we kept some of the items we couldn't part with, including a large framed painting of the sea. Now, it hangs above our fireplace, providing us with a constant reminder of happier times.
We'd invited two other couples to join us for dinner that night. They were quite wealthy, and my mother was really looking forward to meeting them. But right at the start, everything seemed to go wrong. The meat wasn't cooked properly, one of the wines turned out to be bad, and then the servant who was supposed to serve the dessert forgot about it altogether. Finally, the meal ended with everyone complaining about how miserable they felt.
Afterward, the four of us retired to the drawing room to enjoy a glass or two of port before leaving for home. My parents' friends sat across from each other while my mother and I occupied a sofa facing them. Then came a terrible moment. One of our neighbors passed away that year. His wife had also died a few months earlier, which made him the perfect person to talk to about the difficulties of coping with grief.
Source
So when he started talking about his late wife, I found myself nodding along while trying hard to look interested. When I heard him mention the sea, I almost jumped out of my skin, because his description sounded so familiar.
"Did you ever see the sea?" he asked. "I mean, the real thing? Not a picture."
My head jerked up and my heart skipped a beat. There was no doubting it: the speaker was talking about the sea. How could that be possible? I'd never met this man before. Yet somehow he was describing the same place I thought about constantly, even though it existed only in my mind. I didn't know if this was some kind of mistake. Maybe the wine was affecting my hearing. Maybe my brain had been playing tricks on me. Still, I wanted to hear more.
"Yes," I said. "Many times."
He smiled. "And did it ever seem like anything but a big piece of water?"
He spoke slowly and softly as if he knew exactly what sort of reaction he would get from me. The words seemed to flow freely from his mouth.
"You must have loved it, even though you've never seen it."
My reply was just as hesitant. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did."
At that point, I noticed that my mother had gone very pale. She stared at me as if she'd seen a ghost, but I couldn't take my eyes off the stranger.
"But it was always just a memory, wasn't it?" he continued. "A memory of a place where no one can go anymore. A memory of being together."
Our neighbor's eyes were moist and filled with sorrow. His voice faltered slightly and his hand strayed to the pocket of his trousers. It looked as if he needed to pull out a photograph of his wife, but instead, he handed over a small wooden box. Inside was an old photo of a woman and a young girl standing side by side, staring straight ahead at the camera. Their outfits were simple and unremarkable. But they were smiling.
Then he opened his mouth and began to speak. Even though I couldn't understand the words, I recognized the cadence and tone of his speech. It reminded me of the way my father used to speak when he told us stories about his childhood.
"This is my mother," he said, pointing at the woman in the picture. He sighed deeply and gazed at the image for a long time. "She lived in a small town near the sea. In fact, it was surrounded by the sea. And every day, she would take her daughter for a walk along its edge. People called the place 'the sea'."
His voice shook slightly, just like mine did whenever I tried to describe the sea.
"I don't remember much about the town or the beach, but there was something special about it. My mother never mentioned the name of the place, but when I think about it now, I imagine it must have been somewhere along the Italian coast. Perhaps in Tuscany, although I'm sure it was different back then."
The stranger took the photo from his lapel and wiped tears from his eyes. Then he put his arm around his wife's shoulders and drew close to her. For a moment their bodies were pressed against each other.
"They were happy, weren't they?" he asked, his voice quivering. "Both of them. Even after all these years, I can still feel it. I know that they were. They were good people, both of them."
He stopped talking and gently lowered the photograph onto his lap. My mother and I exchanged glances. We understood precisely what he meant. Our host had lost someone very dear to him, and the pain remained with him to this day.
"That was many years ago," he added.
"We were only children then, and we hadn't yet known that our lives would change forever."
I saw the photo again. This time I noticed how the two figures were dressed. The mother wore a plain cotton dress with a wide-brimmed hat. Her daughter was wearing a similar outfit, except hers was decorated with ribbons and bows. There was nothing particularly unusual about either of them, but I suddenly realized that the little girl was wearing a blue ribbon tied in her hair.
"I can't believe it," my mother whispered. "It looks as if she's wearing the same color as you."
Her words surprised me. I hadn't given it any thought, but I supposed that she might be right. After all, our hair was the same shade of blonde.
"Do you remember that day?" he asked, turning to me. "When you first came home from school and showed me your new blue bow?"
I nodded. "Of course."
He turned to my mother and said, "Isn't it strange how you can remember so clearly the moment when everything changed?"
We both agreed with him.
"I had been looking forward to coming here for weeks," he continued. "To see the sea, to smell the salt air, to feel the sand between my toes. And when the day finally arrived, I was so excited. But once I got there, I didn't recognize it at all. Instead of feeling the urge to jump into the water, I wanted to run away. Back to the real world, where I could breathe fresh air and drink clean water. Where I wouldn't have to worry about drinking too much tea, and where I'd be able to eat without worrying about the calories."
He paused for a moment. The sadness on his face grew deeper. He ran his fingers through his wife's hair, and I imagined that he was imagining her sitting beside him on the bench.
"I went back several times that year," he said quietly. "And I brought my child with me. But we didn't stay long. She was only six years old and she kept asking me why everything looked so different. Why the houses seemed smaller than before and why the trees were growing differently. But I knew that it wasn't her fault."
He held up the photo. "My mother always used to say that you couldn't go back. That the past was like a river. If you jumped in, you would be swept away and lost. And that it was better to keep moving forward, even if it was hard sometimes."
A tear rolled down his cheek. "But I never really listened to her."
He wiped his cheek and then stared at the photo again. "Did you ever wonder why she chose that particular spot? Did you ever ask yourself whether it had anything to do with you, and your blue ribbon?"
I shook my head. "No," I said honestly. "Not until today."
The stranger smiled. "Well, it does," he said. "That's the reason why my mother chose this place. It has meaning for us because it reminds us of the most important person in our lives. That's why she gave me this photo. So that I would always remember her."
I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn't find the words. I was filled with an intense longing to hear more. To learn everything about him and his family. But I knew that was impossible. I looked at my mother and saw how sad she was.
"You should give this photograph to your son one day," the stranger said softly. "And tell him what it means. That way, he won't forget either."
He stood up and handed me the photo.
"Take care of it," he told me. "Keep it safe until the time comes for you to hand it over. And then pass it on to your own son. And I'll pray that he will understand."
I saw the stranger only once more. A few months later, my parents moved out of town, and I haven't seen him since. But every time I look at the picture in my room, I think of him. And I remember that no matter how hard things get, they're not going to last forever.
