by David K. Edwards
Bernardo awoke with a smile. He had been anticipating this particular morning for many months; it had once been his favorite day of the year.
Bernardo sat up in his bed and stared into the darkness. His room was pitch black, except for the dull red glow of embers in the fireplace.
Wrapping his blanket over his shoulders, Bernardo got up from his bed and reached for the poker. He stirred the embers thoughtfully, slowly, watching the ash fall from the burning coals. The grateful embers offered up more warmth and light.
Bernardo smiled down at them, as his usual playful mood returned. It was feeding time! Bernardo lifted a heavy log and dropped it into the fireplace. Dozens of sparks took flight, like a dazzling swarm of fireflies. Bernardo laughed silently as they briefly swirled about him, only to flicker away in the darkness.
Tiny tongues of flames tentatively licked the log, as if deciding whether it was worth consuming. It was dry California oak, well aged, and evidently sufficiently tasty, as more tongues formed to lap the wood. Bernardo stood back and watched them.
There was a time when he thought he'd never like fire again. Fire was a selfish thing, covetous and always hungry. When contained, fire was a useful servant, providing light and warmth. It roasted meats, baked pies, and melted metal, which could be poured into molds or hammered into shoes for horses, nails, plows, or swords -- or a thousand other tools. But fire is not content to serve. Given a chance, it will eagerly overcome its confines and claim everything it touches. And even a child soon learns that the tiniest spark of a flame can hurt or destroy.
Some people are like fire, Bernardo reflected, philosophically. They are not content with their station or situation in life, hoping instead to gain quickly, usually by taking away from others. They think they will be happy when they have this or that, but once they have it, contentment eludes them and they seek something else to possess. These people live in the future, not in the present. Instead of appreciating what they have, they are only able to focus on what they lack, or what others own.
Bernardo, on the other hand, had never failed to delight in the present and appreciate what he had. Since birth, he had been mute, unable to utter a single word. But he rarely looked upon his condition as a disability -- quite the opposite, in fact. The boys who grew into the men who continued to taunt him and judge him because of his inability to speak weren't the sort of people he would ever have called friends. His inability to speak insured that he was never troubled by cruel opportunists. Bernardo knew that the people who sought his company did so for no other reason than that they liked him.
And, when given time, he could make himself understood. Bernardo had a gift for making people laugh. And, despite the fact that he couldn't speak in the usual way, Bernardo had succeeded in winning the heart of a beautiful woman.
Bernardo took a taper and lit the lamp he kept on the mantle. He carried it over to his desk and removed a quill, a bottle of ink, and some parchment from a drawer. He dipped the quill into the ink and began to write:
Dear Alita,
Happy birthday, my love! Thoughts of you and this day radiate from my
heart like the summer sun. I know that if I were to venture outside, the
rooster would surely crow, ashamed that he had allowed so much of this
special day to pass unnoticed and unheralded. Indeed, had I a voice to stir
the echoes, I would awaken the sun from its sleepy wanderings behind our
eastern mountains!
It is hard to believe another year has come and gone since last I wrote. So much has happened that I fear this one bottle of ink might not convey it all, but I shall try, even if I have to search the tide pools later this morning and milk whatever octopus I find there!
Alita, surely you remember Diego de la Vega? You met him once. He came to the University three years after my retirement, after you and I had built our home in the hills. We planted our apple trees that first year, remember?
In the quiet of my room just now it is easy to recall the sweet smell of apple blossoms and the pleasant sound of humming from our apiary. I insisted we needed the bees to pollinate the blossoms, while you argued we needed them to sweeten your biscuits!
But I was writing about Diego and the university, not your biscuits, no matter how deserving they might be!
