The morning light caught the moths of dust dancing around Arnold, as if Mariam’s spirit had come to escort him home, finally ready to reunite with the love of his life, finding peace in an earthly farewell.
More people gathered for the funeral than Arnold’s birthday party. Brady watched the neighbours gather in a quiet circle, sharing stories of the old man’s kindness, his wit, and his ability to turn even the ordinary into magic.
They talked of summer evenings on his veranda, of wisdom spoken over a cup of too strong coffee, and of a life lived quietly but fully.
As Brady rose to deliver the eulogy, his fingers traced the edge of the plane ticket in his pocket – the very one he’d bought to surprise Arnold for his upcoming 94th birthday. A trip to Paris in the spring like Arnold had always dreamed of. It would be perfect.
Now he shoved it under the white satin upholstery of his coffin with trembling hands, a promise unfulfilled.
Arnold’s children arrived late, dressed in black, carrying fresh flowers that seemed to mock the faded relationship they represented. They huddled together, telling stories of the father they had learnt to love while he was alive. Their tears fell like rain after a drought, too late to nourish what had already died.
As the crowd thinned, Brady pulled a tattered envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside was the last letter Arnold had written but never mailed, just three days before his death:
“Dear children,
By the time you read this, I will be gone. Brady promised to mail these letters after…well, after I was gone. He’s a good boy. The son I found when I needed him most. I want you to know that I forgave you a long time ago. Life gets busy. I realise that now. But I hope that someday, when you’re old and your own children are too busy to call, you’ll remember me. Not with sadness or guilt, but with love.
I asked Brady to take my cane with me to Paris in case I wasn’t meant to live another day. Silly, isn’t it? An old man’s cane travelling the world without him. But this cane has been my companion for 20 years. She knows all my stories, hears all my prayers, feels all my tears. She deserves an adventure.
Be kinder to yourself. Be kinder to each other. And remember: it’s never too late to call the one you love. Until it is.
Love,
Dad.”
Brady was the last to leave the cemetery. He decided to keep Arnold’s letter with him because he knew it would be useless to send it to the children. At home he found Joe, Arnold’s aging tabby, waiting for him on the porch as if he knew exactly where he belonged.
‘You’re my family now, mate,’ Brady said, taking the cat in his arms. “Arnie will roast me alive if I leave you alone! You can take the corner of my bed, or pretty much anywhere else you feel cosy. Just don’t scratch the leather sofa, agreed?!”
That winter passed slowly, each day a reminder of Arnold’s empty chair. But when spring returned, painting the world with fresh colours, Brady knew it was time. As the cherry blossoms rustled in the morning breeze, he boarded the plane to Paris with Joe safely tucked away in a carrier.
In the overhead compartment, Arnold’s cane rested against his old leather suitcase.
‘You were wrong about one thing, Arnie,’ Brady whispered, watching the dawn colour the clouds with golden hues. “It’s not foolishness at all. Some dreams just need other legs to carry them.”
Down below, the golden rays of sunlight bathed the quiet cottage at the end of Maple Street, where memories of the old man’s love still warmed the walls and hope had never learnt to die.