Mr. Sendson

A person that has never failed to invade my thoughts, pique my curiosity, capture my attention or be the centre of my reverie is my old-fashion neighbour: Mr. Sendson. The most; and I mean the “most strangest” person I’ve ever met.
Frequently and affectionately labelled by neighbours as eccentric or sometimes schizophrenic based on his constant mutterings about repo men or the grim reaper that is out to get him, he is a very imaginative man who happens to be a bachelor; even though it was rumoured that he ran away on the day of his wedding. Oh how his fiancée suffered - although it was an arranged marriage involving his cousin six times removed - and how he was abhorred by his father. Some people said that he wanted to pursue his dreams and not to be bound to earth by marriage; to fulfill his inamorata’s shared destiny.

Standing six feet tall; without slouching, he looked the part of a typical frail old man but just without the actual lack of strength shown. As people normally say in my town, don’t judge a book by its cover unless you’re sure you won’t lose your nose (getting snapped off by it). With café au lait coloured eyes that glowed wisdom, a goofy grin which turns into an apprehensive scowl when things get serious. Greying light mahogany coiffure and wrinkles decorated his frame; coupled with a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a sardine tin containing his memoirs nestled in his left pocket of faded and tattered cargo pants.

Usually, people would judge him based on his lackadaisical behaviour; him and his seemingly effervescent energy that boasts all signs of negative growth due to midlife crisis but in actual fact it was all a façade. He chooses the people he should bestow his knowledge upon; in form of lovely stories and reminiscence as indications of trust. I am inadvertently placed in his little list of trustworthy people, always bedazzled and fascinated by wonders of his world. Sporting loose button-down clothes on his back of various dull and pale shades, he would leave his house; which is a dilapidated miniature wooden cabin with a weed-infested garden and work in his shop of an omnium gatherum of antiques of vintage value.

I would visit his store whenever time grants me the approval to, and he would give his usual greeting by feigning dementia. I would perch myself on his countertop, swinging my legs and awaiting my drink of honeyed tea from the shopkeeper. Then it would begin, stories overflowed and enveloped me in its glorious wonders, painting me a portrait of the actual events from the past with me smack dab in the middle of it. I joshed about how ginormous the storage space in his brain is while in turn he joked about how I could still handle the stories when my noodle was puny. Ticking of clocks that hung in a disorderly fashion on the dusty wall would reverberate on and on but we were in our own little world.

But the most nonpareil story out of all was the one about his sweetheart, true and ethereal. When he described her infinite beauty with words, I was certain I saw tears forming at the corners of those eyes though he flat out denied it. A heart-rending and compelling story indeed that it riveted me. So very in love but separated by a mystery. She was the most angelic gift from God and he thanked Him for that. She was slender and elegant with strawberry blonde hair flowing down her back. Her compassionate cerulean eyes shone in the sun, lips curving into a soft smile, full and cerise. Skin that reminds you of snow during the first break of winter, icy and flawless. Delicate snowy hands folded together and rested on her thighs. It was like a dream; a reverie...

“What happened to her?” I asked him one day, curiosity got the better of me. It was Christmas Eve and I decided to spend my time with him. This time my drink was ginger ale with a touch of peppermint. The reaction I got from him was clearly not anticipated. He hung his head low, shoulders sagged and he slouched even more. His lips quivered and there was a strange glistening shine in his eyes but I couldn’t decipher what it was. I could feel the solid silence in the air; suffocating our sanity.

After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up and smiled; a broken smile. With a paternal manner, he placed his hand gently and lightly on my shoulder, his face betraying no emotions. Realisation dawned upon me and I clenched my fists tight.

“She’s gone?” I whispered while winter’s icy breath tickled me. He shook his head as he absentmindedly tapped at the old cash register next to me. Relief flooded through me as I was informed that she wasn’t a zombie.

“But, my dear. She’s not forgotten,” he said very suddenly, staring into the ceiling as if he could see the cluster of stars scattered across the night sky. I snapped my head up in surprise, not expecting it.

“She went missing. Disappeared from the face of the earth,” he continued, “As if she never existed. Traces of her; none, zilch. Like it was really a dream.”

“But she’s not dead?” I questioned him in need of knowing.

“I don’t know.”. Silence.

“But what I know is that my duty is to live on and wait for her and maybe one day...”. My eyes widened further.

“We’ll meet again for sure and I can declare my love for her...”. My heartstrings were pulled.

It started snowing on that Christmas Eve while the night was still young, blanketing the town in all its ghostly wonder. There was carolling, great feasts and gatherings, in that little town. The strangest person I’ve ever met is my zealous neighbour Old Man Mr. Sendson with his distinct accent. In all our misery, hear our euphoria even though life forces us back to face more hardships than ever.

That same day, I found out that his sardine tin he always kept contained a worn out train ticket; of their last meeting many, many years ago. Love unconfessed at a train terminus unheard of. The most mysterious and peculiar person I have ever met; Mr. Sendson.