Tears From Ghosts

It was in the half-light of a cold, January afternoon that the memories of his surroundings began to gnaw into his mind...

The first time he’d stood, carefree and giddy with anticipation, in the doorway of the very same pub, with the bar at the other side of the room.

The first time he laid eyes on the pictures recalling memorable moments in time, shared within the walls they hung from, and the elderly man in the corner with the sad, regretful eyes, and the regulars on the stools holding court.

The first time he nervously asked the landlady’s daughter for his first drink. The first time, after an hour or two, that he summoned the courage to return her gaze, through glazed eyes, from the very same seat.

The first time he returned. The first time he drew comfort from the fire flickering in the corner, and keeping out the cold.

The first time he heard the strains of the piano – still stood proudly, like a weather-beaten and wise grandparent with a tale or two to tell – and how he was seduced by the sad, lost melodies that poured out and filled the room, like gin into a tumbler.

The tone, and the smell. The unmistakable musky smell that sat between the keys and released itself and hung in the air, an invisible fog, and drifted and danced in time with each new note that was played.

The first time the melody and the musk intertwined and became as one.

The first kiss he shared with the girl he’d later love.

The first Christmas, the first birthday. The laughter. The wedding reception with the flowers and the tears of joy in his eyes.

The jokes, the anecdotes.

Closing in now. Appearing like apparitions from the walls and the skirting boards...

The candle burning high and new on the table beside him. The door opening, the cold coming in, the flame dancing higher.

The laughter and the tears. The arguments and the make-ups and the break-ups. The fights and the philosophies.

They all belonged to the past, but the memories remained and they were alive within him…

The changing faces, the turning of pages. The pulling of pints. The cuddles in the corner. The chatter and the smile for the landlady’s daughter.

The wooden arms of the chair. The floorboards that creaked in the same place, in the same way, every day.

The nights that were lost to the liquor and the ones that were never forgotten, but seldom recalled.

The candle that burned down. The candle that he’d barely noticed had burned down on the table beside him. The candle that he’d barely noticed had burned down while he lost himself to his memories, but which still burned...

And then he looked back to the doorway where he’d stood for the first time, all those years ago, carefree and giddy with anticipation.

And that’s when he saw the young man looking back at him. And that’s when he watched him move across to the bar and nervously ask the landlady’s daughter for a drink, and that's when he watched him take his seat.

And that’s when he looked at the candle and saw the flame burning low on the table beside him. And that’s when he saw the wax, clinging to the stump that was left.

The wax clinging to the candle, suspended in time, like tears from ghosts.