She pressed her hand up against the window and felt the vibrations caused by the wind outside. Leaves, picked up by the blustery weather, swirled and disappeared into the stand of pines beside the road. Strange, she thought, that two twisted strands of protein could produce two such remarkably similar yet irreconciliably different things as the oak and the evergreen.
She was home after spending a year and a half away at university. Her flight left later that afternoon and she was alone in the house with her father, her mother having taken her younger brother to his hockey game. They had said their goodbyes and she had laughed as her brother flashed her the V-sign as they drove away. Sitting now with her father at the kitchen table, she wondered whether deciding to attend school on the other side of the country was as wise a decision as she had thought when she enrolled. He, for his part, was also gazing out the window with a faint smile upon his lips. That meant he was about to do something - it always did.
"Tea?" he said to his reflection, and then turned to face her with a big grin on his face.
"Sure," she said. "What have we got?"
"Not a choice, that's for sure."
Her father stood, crossed the room and opened the cupboard. Oh, she realized, tea tea. She smiled and folded her arms across her chest. Time to get comfortable, there wasn't going to be any speaking for a while.
The tea ceremony, as her father jokingly called it, had been occurring for as long as she could remember. Not on a regular basis, but so uncommonly that it almost always signalled a special occasion. Silence was the first part of the ritual, against which she and her brother had once rebelled and her father half-turned, spoke a single 'please' and turned back to the counter. They hadn't questioned it after that, their father's tone carrying an importance that even at the ages of seven and four they could understand.
Her father set the now-filled kettle on the stove, struck a match and lit the gas. He always seemed to have a box of matches at the ready for this occasion, and never used the electric lighter - though he would at any other time. He brought the match up to eye level, stared at if for a second and gave it a single shake, extinguishing it. He opened the box containing the tea set and carried it over to the table, lifting the pot out with two hands and placing it gently upon the table. Three cups followed in quick succession, and the box was brought back to the counter.
Three cups. One for each person there and one for those not present. She lifted one of the cups and flipped it over in her hands. She had no idea how old they were, and although they were unquestionably antiques, they were in flawless condtion, no doubt because her father had handled them with such extreme care from the moment they came into his possession. Each cup had an intricate pattern of an elephant and lotus flowers, repeated once on each half, painted on the white porcelain in cobalt tones. Two elephants, following each other through a whimsical tropical jungle for all eternity. Her father had told her that one should always endeavour to drink tea with another person - hence the extra cup. She'd always liked that part, and how her father said that way he never had to feel alone. She wondered now if he ever had.
Setting the cup back down on the table, she looked up at her father as he stared resolutely at the kettle on the stove, lifted up the lid and tossed in a single tea leaf. She thought this was the big joke of the whole affair, as her father loved to wisecrack when boiling water at other times. "A watched pot never boils, my ass," he would say, glaring imperiously at the steam rising from the kettle. "It just takes a hell of a lot longer." That was the other thing about her father, that even under the most serious of circumstances, and though you were likely not to catch it, he would make some sort of quip - he just couldn't help himself. Her mother was always giving him grief for smiling at improper moments, as often as not producing the very same smile she was chastizing him for. She half-felt that was why her mother loved him, despite how angry it made her.
The kettle had risen to a boil. Her father grinned, stood up straight and cupped his hands in the jet of steam coming out of the spout. He gave them a quick rub, as if washing them, picked up the kettle and poured a small amount into the tea pot. He then put the kettle back on the stove, picked up the tea pot with both hands and swirled it clockwise in three distinct movements. He poured the water out into the sink, placed the pot back on the table and shook a measure of tea leaves into each cup. He retrieved the kettle and held it while with his other hand, he emptied the cups into the pot, pouring the boiling water in after each cup. He returned the kettle to the stove, sat down and clasped his hands in front of him, watching the pot for a moment before picking it up and pouring three cups of tea. First the cup for those not present, then hers and finally his own.
Lifting his cup to his lips with both hands, he took a tiny sip and lowered it an inch or two. Peeking at her through the steam spiraling upwards, he smiled.
"So, let me tell you a story," he said.
* * *
Where should I start? I suppose I should tell you that it's a story I haven't told before, not even to your mother. Not that it is particularly secret or anything, just that it's the kind of story that the woman you love might not particularly want to hear. Life has a funny way of giving you things that you don't understand the importance of for a long time, and sometimes, never. People you meet and experiences you have shape you in all manner of ways, and there's not a lot you can do about it except collect these memories and figure out how they all fit together. I tell you, whoever's in charge upstairs has got to be a cryptographer... or a hell of a practical joker.
But that is something else entirely. You ever wonder where I got this tea set, or how this whole tea ceremony thing got started? It was given to me by a woman, a long time ago. I've since lost track of her, but I think that was what was meant to be. It would be fair to say that I loved her, but not fair to say that I loved her more than I love your mother. We had a different kind of love, one that was only possible in my youth, when I was just beginning to explore the world and had no idea what I was looking for, just a vague impression that there was something worth seeking out.
I was fresh out of university and somehow had ended up in Japan. She was the daughter of a local restaurant owner, twenty years old and overwhelmingly beautiful... of course. She had a smile that was so pure it could light up a room and a wide-eyed innocence that you couldn't help but admire. However, don't let me make you think this was one of those 'love-at-first-sight' things - it wasn't. I'd been introduced to her and then hardly saw her for the better part of a year. I didn't even think about her, I was so busy finding out all I could about the country.
Over time, I became close friends with the owner and his wife, and they - I suppose - came to look upon me as a sort of wayward son, and 'adopted' me, so to speak. I started spending more time at the restaurant, often closing the place out in conversations with the owner and other customers. I had some truly wonderful times sitting at that bar - it's where I made a great many lifelong friends. Come to think of it, I probably learned more sitting there than I did the whole time at university - probably spent about as much money, too.
Anyway, eventually the daughter started working at the restaurant, she having decided that she would be the one to take it over and care for her parents once they retired. As the youngest of three daughters, it was also kind of expected of her. I had gotten to know her sisters quite well, as they both spoke a fair amount of English (the youngest, however, not a lick) and although they helped out behind the counter on occasion, they had no intention of spending their lives working in a restaurant. They would spend hours grilling me about the places I had been and how the world worked outside of rural Japan. I was happy to sit and spin yarns for them - I was there to teach, after all - and they returned the favour by teaching me the language. The whole time, the youngest daughter was there, waiting patiently for one of her sisters to translate my answers, or laughing and applauding my steadily improving Japanese.
And I guess that's when it happened. Nobody saw it coming, ourselves included. I can't even say that I was aware of any feelings for her, I'd just walk into the place as usual and we'd end up chatting all night long. I knew she had a boyfriend, but as I had no designs on her, I didn't really think about it. We were too busy having fun - all of us.
One night after closing, we were sitting at the bar watching her father assist some drunken fellows out the door and into the night. I turned back to the counter and happened to put my hand down on top of hers. A surge of electricity leapt up my arm and flowed into my chest. My heart didn't just skip a beat, it pole-vaulted a whole section of them. I looked at her and knew the same thing had happened to her, and realized we'd never touched before. It was the oddest feeling, knowing that this very moment, I am touching someone for the first time and am completely, wholly aware of it. I've got to say that touch has got to be the most underappreciated of the senses, it being the only true constant in our lives. We've all known silence and darkness, the scent and taste of nothing are all too familiar to us, and so delight in their opposites. At that moment, her hand warm and trembling beneath mine, I knew I had been irrevocably changed - I had been given a gift.
Her hand turned over, and our fingers weaved together, her thumb softly caressing my knuckle. We sat there for a long while, neither of us speaking, staring silently at our hands, oblivious to the world around us. Her father came back inside, banging the door shut behind him and snapping us out of our reverie. She pulled her hand away and placed it in her lap before standing up and whispering, "I'm sorry". I nodded, unable to look her in the eye and she stepped into the kitchen. I packed up my things, said goodnight to the owner and stepped outside.
It's funny how in our lives, most moments come and go, leaving us with only a vague recollection of what transpired; but every once in a while, you are handed a series of unforgettable moments, ones that leave an indelible mark on you. Standing out on the empty street on that cold, drizzly evening was my second of the night. I had only walked about a half a block when I heard the door to the restaurant open behind me and her call my name. I turned, just as she came running into my arms. I held her there, in that soflty falling rain, senses reeling as her face turned up to mine and our lips met.
I tell you, one of the hardest things I've ever had to do was let her go. In all fairness, it was late and she wasn't wearing a jacket, so that pretty much made the decision for me. I sent her back inside with promises to see her soon, tears mingling with the rain on her face. She nodded, turned and ran back indoors.
The next night, she was nowhere to be found. Her father sat me down and told me, apologetically, that she had gotten pregnant and was getting married that spring. No ifs, ands or buts. I don't think he was upset with me, but was only explaining to me what had to happen, despite anyone's wishes to the contrary. What could I say? The rest of the conversation is a haze, but I guess I eventually excused myself and didn't return for a month or so. By that time, she was no longer working, being busy preparing for the wedding, so things pretty much went on the same as they had before.
I went to her wedding, you know. I hadn't seen her for months, and as a close friend of the family, I was pretty much expected to be there. It was quite the affair, everyone in tuxedos and formal kimonos, plenty to eat and even more to drink. I don't want to get into all the details, mostly because everybody was blindingly drunk by mid-afternoon and we still had the reception to attend later on in the evening. She, as can be expected, looked radiant and exceedingly happy. Things went smoothly enough for me, I had plenty of friends to talk to and distract me from the situation at hand - up until the very end. We were supposed to file out of the reception hall, greet the happy couple and hand them a wedding 'gift': cash wrapped up in a fancy envelope. I met the groom, shook his hand and managed to blurt out the formal congratulations and then moved on to greet the bride.
Yet another of those moments. She turned to face me, and the world fell away. I took her hand in mine, but was unable to speak. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, hers were already spilling over and it was obvious that we were about to make a scene. I gave her hand a final squeeze and stumbled outside into the afternoon sun. Somehow I found my car, got inside and wept like a child. Some friends found me, sorted me out and brought me to the reception, where I basically drank myself paralytic. Not what I would call my finest hour, but an understandable course of action, I should think.
About a week later, I was at home working on my car when she pulled into my driveway. She stepped out of the car with a box in her hand. I invited her inside, sat her down in the living room and went to wash my hands. I returned, sat down across from her and we just looked at her. She placed the box on the table and slid it towards me. I lifted the lid and found a tea set - this tea set - inside. I thanked her, but she just shook her head, took the set out of the box and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She made the tea and poured out two cups, which we sat and drank, chatting long into the afternoon just as we used to do. When finally she stood to leave, I went to show her to the door, but she stopped me. She reached down, took my hand and touched it briefly to her face. Putting my hand down, she stepped back, bowed once and left.
I knew then that would be the last time we would touch. From that moment on, I have always set out a cup for her. Saying it is there for those who are not present is not exactly an untruth, as I do have a large number of people whose friendships I honour and am always mindful of, but I think of her as I pour the tea into that cup, and of that last afternoon in July.
* * *
Her father sat, looking at the tea cup in his hand. His expression was one she had never seen before, one of absolute calm. She got the feeling that at this moment, she could ask him for anything and he would grant it without a second thought. This being new ground, she wasn't sure what she should do. Her father put down his cup, picked up the third and poured it back into the pot.
"Hell of a story, huh?" he said.
"I don't know what to say, dad."
He stood, collected the tea set and carried it over to the sink. Picking up the sponge, he washed each piece deliberately and set them out on a tea cloth to dry, not looking at her as he spoke.
"I don't suppose there is anything to say. I'm not even sure why I'm telling you this; it just seemed like the appropriate thing to do." He paused. "Well. I guess it's about that time. I'm gonna miss you, you know?"
"I'll miss you, too, dad," she said, hugging him.
He kissed her on the top of her head and left the room to get his jacket. She sat back down at the table and looked out the window. A lone seagull was hanging in the sky above the pines, suspended by the wind. She watched it as it floated there, serene and still against the chaos that swirled around the world outside.
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