I just wanted you to enjoy a long, quiet life.”
I held the letter in my hands for a moment.
For thirty-five years he had thought that Victor simply had a strange custom that he never wanted to explain.
Now I understood that for him that little tradition meant much more.
It was a way to share with me a special moment every night.
Since then, when nine o’clock, I sometimes put two glasses back on the table.
One contains my usual preparation.
The other, the bitter fruit juice that Victor enjoyed so much.
I raise my glass to the empty chair and say,
Utensilskitchen and crockery
“A glass for another day and for the thirty-five years we shared.
