Tim O Brien: A Short Story

The moments in life are in a constant flow. Eighty long year of sitting at the riverside has given me perspective to judge. At times, the water flows like honey. Times are sweet and slow, the constant tick of the clock silenced by the ringing of Joy’s bell. Times like those, I try to walk slowly along the bank, to savor each precious second, I stoop down - on a child’s knees, on a newly married man’s knees, on an old man’s knees- and I drink the sweet water of good times.

But the river is always changing.

Times do come when the water runs like stained glass, slow and painful. through this old man’s life, I’ve had many days, weeks, months of agonizing listlessness. I can neither see the bottom, nor the end. The bitter taste of resentment pervading the blurred emotions. I saw times like this in his eyes. The boy. The one that came not three days ago, sweat-stained and tired. The river ran red.

Whatever this great cause of grief was, it had been sudden.

‘O’Brien’ was written in standard typeface letters across his license, which he handed to me after dejectedly inquiring for a room.

“Here you go, Tim.” Our eyes never met.

Silence is a virtue. In the fifteen some odd years after the death of my wife, I’ve learned to replace her smiling gossip and her mascara gazes. Instead, I learned to truly focus. To question inwardly but never pry. Something told me this was just the silent solace Tim O’Brien so desperately craved.

We spent long hours staring at papers, on opposite of the table, opposite sides of life. I’d seen the draft letter, crumpled, tear smudged, unfolded once again.