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The characters in the book I'm reading are about to drink tea, when I'm suddenly reminded of what I saw on my way home from running some errands the other day. There was an old man sitting at the stone bench at the void deck, alone. And he had a tray on the table, filled with -insert word- (I forgot the material, I know it's not porcelain) cups and a teapot. The scene struck me as being extremely sad. He was probably early, and waiting for his kakis to come down and join him for their tea session, but it was still sad, seeing an old man seated there alone waiting for company. I glanced at his face, and saw anticipation. Labels: musings
Strange how the tea session has been changed to the day. Previously it would be after dinner, and the void deck would be crowded with a number of old men, the table strewn with their teacups, snacks and what have you, the area overflowing with the boisterous chatterings of the hainanese gang, the feeling of camaraderie. It's the juxtaposition, remembering that, and seeing the lone old man, that brings forth the sadness. It doesn't help that one of the gang passed away earlier this year, and the gatherings have gotten smaller and quieter over the years.
Somehow it makes me not want to grow old.