Theresa's Remembrance

The October afternoon was cold and rain-soaked, sixteen years ago, when the news was delivered. Roberto, our postman then, got on his bicycle and pedaled over to my house despite the bad weather. He needed to hand me the telegram. You know, he and Antonio were best friends, from childhood. Oh, why do some men love the sea? Roberto doesn't, but my Antonio, he said it himself, 'After you and our children, it is the sea that I live for.' And the doom of that day in October, you never forget these things: Roberto's coming, the heavy aspect of his eyes, the utterly empty gray sky, and the distant moan of the sea. I stood in the doorway, holding but not reading the telegram. Later, he held me as I sobbed, and when the children came home, he told them. His kindness was a blessing, wasn't it? Why do some men so love the sea? Antonio would grow restless as his furlough came to its end, he'd fuss over details of the cargo, check the nautical maps, and in his eyes there was that look of men who see beyond what the rest of us can't even imagine... When he was gone, I took the children down to the beach, with the surf crashing against the shore rocks. And they would shout in their small voices, 'Papa, Papa, come home, we want you! ' And you know, he always did, season after season, until his jealous lover claimed him as her own. But the children only had the most precious memories of him. They always felt his presence in some way, as I still do, all these years later. Yes, despite that lure of the sea, we were his first love.