For two and a half years now, he had been going to that little coffee shop just around the corner on the street where he lived. Always, he woke up at around six in the morning and watched the sky lighten from blue to a deep bronze swirling with pinks, oranges and white. He waited for that first light of the morning, doing little things like watering the plants or reading a book until the streets started getting busy, then he put on his overcoat, his shoes and head down to the corner of the street.

Ever since he turned sixty he had found it hard to sleep and to stay asleep. Afterall, sleep is a privilege of the young, or "the lazy and the dim-witted" as his grandmother used to say, but that was so long ago. She herself had taken to bed for the last three months of her life, bed-ridden and furious at her immobility and eventually growing deranged, then forgetful and then silent. He had felt bad for her when he was younger, but now, in these last few years he has come to understand her frustrations better. Sure, he felt fear for what was to come eventually, but that fear is always over-emphasized by people at the height of their youth. Most of the time it was frustration at growing older, finding out there were more and more things he could no longer do with grace. For example he preferred the elevator to the stairs, rainy days brought mechanical difficulties, even tying his own shoes became too physically demanding, he took to wearing slip ons-those comfy old things. Still, things weren't all so bad. He still had a cozy little apartment with a window from which he could watch the park on sunny days and watch kids romp and scream. And, there was his favorite coffee shop just around the corner, the owner of which he had become friends with.

He graced it every morning and Al junior, the owner's son would give him a smile and a friendly pat on the back.

"Where's your old man?" he asked as he sat down.

"Gone fishing."

He admired Al senior's temperament. Al senior was the kind of person who would just up and go and decide to disappear for days spending time on different lakes trying to get a good catch to boast about when he got back. He himself never had that kind of adventurous spirit nor the desire to boast, not that it was a big deal when he was younger, but being able to brag when you got older somehow became a desirable, even admirable trait.

He liked Al junior, he always asked what he would like even though he always ordered the same--English breakfast tea with a slice of lemon on the side. But his asking made it seem as if he was more adventurous than he really was. He always looked at the menu and looked through the options opened to him considering each afresh every morning but always arriving at the same choice. It was less of a routine that way, more of a preference.

"Did the man in the grey hat come by today?" He asked Al junior as he placed his tea with the slice of lemon on the side on the table.

"No. Still haven't seen him." A heavy-set woman waved to Al junior from another table and he left.

The man in the grey hat had been coming to the coffee shop longer than even he had, and always he would already be sitting at his table sipping his black coffee, a peach tart on a little white dish on the side, with his paper spread open just as he arrived. The man in the grey hat would always look up from his paper and gave him a nod and a smile. But it has been two weeks since the man in the grey hat last came to the coffee shop. Could he have moved? He hated to think of the probable, he might be sick. When one got sick at their kind of age, the sickness usually comes with a kind of dark boding. He didn't mind it happening to himself so much, but it disturbed him greatly when it happened to those around him. He thought he would have gotten used to people dying and disappearing in his life by now, but it was something he could never get accustomed to and probably never would.

He remembered the first time he saw the man in the grey hat. He had just moved into the neighborhood. It was right after Martha's death, he had sold their old house, took with him the few pieces of items too precious to be given away or sold. It was the first time he stumbled upon this little coffee shop tucked into the corner of the street, throwing its quiet calm onto the busy frantic street. The man in the grey hat was sitting there reading his paper. It might have been the breeze and the blue sky of that morning or it might have been the way the man in the grey hat was sitting, but for that instant, he felt that he was looking at an ageless scene, that time had somehow froze or was moving in slow motion, dripping slowly like the light that was spreading slowly over everything, turning them into gold. The man in the grey hat must have felt him looking because he had glanced up from his paper casually and their eyes met. He must have smiled because he remembered the man in the grey hat nodding and smiling back at him.

The man in grey hat was sturdy, not in the way he was built, but in the way he held and carried himself--like he had had a secret kind of triumph in life, nothing petty like being rich or successful but something bigger, like finding dignity or discovering a hard-earned truth about life. But whatever it was, it could be seen in the way he held his gaze-steady and bright like a flame some quiet night. They recognized each other instantly, like the way people do sometimes when they meet someone who reflected themselves in the other person's eyes. They were of the same element-- Steady, earth-like and old. Two mountains gazing at each other from across a gulf.

They never spoke, there didn't seem to be a need to. Every morning for two and half years, they sat across each other and exchanged nods and smiles but never a single word. There was once, Al junior had brought him a peach tart. He had quickly told Al that he must have gotten the order wrong, he didn't order any peach tarts, but Al pointed at the man in the grey hat and he understood immediately that it was meant to be a treat--an acknowledgement of an unspoken kind of friendship. He ate the peach, juicy and coated with a layer of syrup. He was never a big fan of the sweets, but he licked the tart clean of the cream save for the crust which was too hard for his old gums. He pointed at his teeth when the man in the grey hat looked curiously at the crust sitting like a shipwreck on his plate, he had smiled and nodded knowingly as if to say "I know that alright."

He looked out for the man in the grey hat for a month. Finally, he found him in the obituary section of the paper. His name was Martin. His memorial service was to be held in three days, on a Friday.

That Friday, He found himself outside the church with a dozen of peach tarts deliberating whether he should go in. He did in the end, because he had always wanted to return Martin a treat but never did and now he felt sad that he never would. He entered the church, and almost immediately he regretted it. All around in the little chapel were his family members and close friends, mourning the passing and celebrating the life of their loved one. What was he doing in there? They talked of Martin's charms, little insider jokes about him, how he had once been in the navy. He felt that he had intruded in the worst possible way. Instead of returning any kind of favor, he was trespassing. Death was a private affair and he had no business here. He was just a man Martin used to see every morning over a cup of coffee. By God, he didn't even know his name until three days ago. He tried to sit through several of the funeral orations, but when Martin's long time friend from the navy talked about their time in the Korean War, he decided it was time for him to leave. On his way out, he looked at the dozen of peach tarts he still held. Martin's daughter stood at the back by a memory table dedicated to the dead man. The tip of her nose was red and her eyes starry.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." He handed the tarts over to her. "I thought you might like these."

She opened the box.

"Peach tarts." She looked at him a little quizzically, but accepted them graciously.

"Were you a good friend of my father?" she asked just as he was about to leave.

"We were a little more than acquitances, really." He looked at the little trinkets on the memory table to avoid her eyes. When he finally looked up, their eyes met. A corridor between him and Martin's daughter opened for that short moment. It was filled with light.

"It was very nice of you to come. Thank you."

He smiled and nodded at her then he opened the chapel door and stepped into the sunshine. It was green everywhere, he observed. Then, he started on his way home.

After Martha died, he had not been able to do anything. All he could do was to mope around the house, picking up random little trinkets which meant little but which now seemed to be haunted by the aura of Martha. He had been wearing the same pair of socks for two weeks now and he didn't care. He didn't care that the house was stinking of the rotting garbage, he didn't care that he was eating expired canned food. He didn't care that his phone has been ringing off the hook full of concerned voice messages from Tom and Jacqueline both worried that their aging father was spiraling into depression or worse, madness. What do they know? He wanted nothing to do with them. Their nagging concern and the way they looked at him as if he was a sickness they wanted to put away forever so that they could carry on with their busy lives.

He had always worried that Martha would go before him. He had tried to make Martha promise that she would die after he did. Maybe, he was being selfish, but from the way his world was rapidly falling apart right now, he could see how Martha would hold it all up, like the way she always did, like the way he could not. Martha would not let herself sink into a shit pit the way he was letting himself drown. He kept running this thought over and over in his head, if only he had Martha, he would not be in such a state. If only Martha were here to tell him what to do to put his life back together, the life which now seemed to have a gigantic black hole which nothing filled. Martha always knew what to do, she always told him things would be alright in the end, and she had always been right. But now, he didn't know. Would things be alright? Would things ever be alright again?

These questions were ignored whenever they floated up like bad smells along with the sound of the doorbell. It was Tom or Jacqueline no doubt. How he had loved them when they were little, carrying them on each shoulder, hearing their squeals of delight. But now, they squealed nightmarishly at him and their guilt and obligation were as obvious as their once-upon-a- time-delight. He was an old man, abandoned and afraid. Yes, afraid. Too frightened even to end it all off by leaving the gas running or jumping off a bridge. Too afraid even to mouth words like "Fuck." Tom had cursed him when he refused to open the door for the seventeenth time. "Fuck you dad. If that's the way you want it." It was followed by angry footsteps of Tom leaving frustrated. He had wanted to run after his son and to call him back to save him, but he was too tired. Besides, it was Martha who always saved him.

Nights were the worst. The bed was so empty and cold, the room so silent that he had to sleep in the couch in the living room with the T.V turned on. And still he could not sleep. He tried listening to music, good old songs which used to soothe his vexed spirits but now everything seemed to lack Martha. Martha hated that song or Martha used to sing along to that song as she washed the dishes. Martha always loved music. Now there was no Martha, and it was unbelievably surreal how things seemed normal everywhere else. Only his grief seemed real. He wanted to run screaming onto the streets that his wife was dead, she was no more, she no longer existed, how dare anyone even be happy, how could anyone have that right when he was in such misery?

He did not know how he spent those days just after Martha's death. Probably he was living like an animal or a barely conscious beast, something vile and lowly on the food chain. But Tom and Jacqueline broke the lock to his door eventually. He saw their horrified faces when they burst upon his living condition and could not hide his amusement at the extent of their horror. Jacqueline had gasped an "Oh my God" and Tom merely stared at the place stunned.

"Dad, you made yourself live in a stink hole. Do you think mum would have wanted this?" Tom was always quick to reprimand, he always reacted in anger.

"It's mum's funeral tomorrow, what do you want us to do?" Such a simple question, but he didn't have an answer to give.

Together Tom and Jacqueline had dragged him from his stinking pedestal and washed him. They tried to clean the place, but even they could not stand the stink. They called for professional cleaning service. To them, everything had a solution.

In the car on the way to Martha's funeral, everyone said little. He had not spoken a word to Tom or Jacqueline ever since the night in the hospital when he had told them they had arrived too late. Their mum had died even when she was in the ambulance. He hated them then. He hated how he was the only one to witness her passing, how he had to shoulder the grief. How they could weep with abandonment which was laced with a tinge of relief. She had died quickly and easily, nothing of the long dragged our battle which wore out the people around the dying who cared. Martha never troubled anyone in life and she did not trouble anyone in death.

They arrived at the cemetery. At the cemetery gates, Tom and Jacqueline stopped to get roses from a grim-faced lady. As they were bargaining with the woman, he saw a little boy across the street with a bunch of balloons.

"Are they for sale?"

The little boy looked at him suspiciously. "My dad bought them for me."

"Will you let me have one?"

The little boy looked thoughtful for a moment then his face lit up, "will you give me a dollar?"

"Sure." He fished for an old bill and took a red balloon from the boy.

Tom and Jacqueline looked at him funny when he walked towards them with a red balloon but said nothing. When you are the one in grief, you have the license to be inexplicble and what may seem inappropriate for someone else is infinitely excusable for the most grieved.

He went through the service obediently doing as he was told by the dry priest who muttered a bunch of unimportant religious nonsense. When it came time for the people to offer their roses and little parting gifts and kisses. He gave thanks for a beautiful life he shared with Martha and let the balloon go. He watched it float above the trees and high into the air. Past the narrow mouth of the tall buildings, into the infinite belly of the sky which stretched on and on and he thought on his love for Martha.