Two tea cups

I came to town to visit my great uncle. I had blurry memories of him, but I was her last living relative since mom was taken by the typhoid.

I would stay for a few days, just long enough to ease the guilt. It was not that I had promised it to my mother, but the premonition of being in his situation made me come. As if easing his loneliness would make mine not to happen.

—¡Tito¡ —that's how I called him by the force of habit— did you know I was coming?— as I saw two cups of tea served on his porch.

—No sobrina— that's how he called me— I was waiting for someone else, but that's all right, sit down, I don't think she's coming today.

I didn't want to bother him, so I didn't insist. I had been told that he was not very well in the head, it was normal at his age. A neighbour had surprised me before reaching the courtyard, in the middle of the driveway.

—Tito's niece? —she asked

—Are you a relative?

—No, but you become fond of the man. He comes out every day after lunch with two cups. He doesn't drink from either, and when they get cold, he goes inside without drinking a sip.

—Do you think he's waiting for someone?

—I don't know, I´ve never talk to him.

—Tito, how are you? — I asked him again the next afternoon on the porch.

—Here waiting for her sobrina, she doesn't seem to be arriving, don’t worry, a pity, knowing that you are leaving soon, she would have loved to see you. You are so beautiful and such a woman. I still remember you as a child...

As the uncle reminisced about old times, the contrast with those memories made me notice his age. His blotchy skin, his recurring themes, that attitude of not hearing. He had always had a gloomy cheerfulness, which he wore out at social events and recovered in solitude. My great- aunt changed that, she was a constant battery for Tito, whenever she was around he kept smiling.

—Maybe he's waiting for my great aunt— I had told to the neighbour— she died almost a year ago, did you know?

—Yes.

The next day I listened again to my uncle's tinkling ritual. The old porcelain tapping with the worn silver of the teaspoons. Tito didn't talk much, the years and the lack of “tita” had turned him into a televised version of himself.

—Tito, tita died already— I dared to tell him as he went out with his tray.

—Yes, to her I want to see. But I'm not waiting for her, no.

—Then who? — I asked, surprised.

—Death, niece. I've been seeing her, beautiful, with her black dress and long sooty hair. I see her out of the corner of my eye. I shouldn't remember her, but I do. She doesn't stalk me, she waits patiently. I make tea for her; I'd hate to receive her with nothing to offer. So it does not occur to her to leave me wandering around here.

And what was I going to tell him? I had no consolation to give. The days at Tito's house were quiet and I got into the habit of sitting on the sofa overlooking the porch to listen to the radio, because sitting outside with him left me with a feeling of emptiness. On one of those afternoons, almost in a trance after lunch, I noticed his weight next to my feet on the couch.

—Tito, your tea is going to get cold.

—Yes niece, I couldn't drink it, I died before. So much waiting and in the end, I didn't even have time for tea. I came to say goodbye, she was very considerate. She told me she already knew you.

From the sofa I could see the table, and my uncle sitting in the chair opposite to the one he used to be in. I looked back down at my feet with a shudder, my uncle was gone. I jumped up and opened the door. My uncle was in his chair, his usual one. The other was empty, as was the teacup. My Tito's cup was warm, like his body.

I asked for the neighbour in town to tell her the news, as she never gave me her address. She didn't live in the houses next to Tito. And no one seemed to know about her. Perhaps this was my fault, for I was unable to give a description of her. I had no memory of her, but of our conversation. Only a few old ladies made a slight grimace of recognition, before moving their heads in denial, shaking off possible encounters with the lady.

So I grabbed my bags and left the way I had come. That town was not mine and my Tito was not there anymore.