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Tears collection Tears collection
by Theodore K. Nasos
2015-10-06 09:11:30
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Very few people know that the honourable Sir John Q. Flatfoot is a collector. Very few also know that Sir John hates carrots and that after 16 years been his loyal trustee I hate carrots as well. Of course not all the time. I like carrot sauce with meat when the meat is veal and well-cooked. I also like carrots-cake. To be honest I like raw carrots with vinegar as well but that’s a totally different story.

Anyway; it was a late evening and Sir John was sitting in his favourite armchair. The usual green trousers, light green shirt, dark green tie, green-red cardigan on the top. We had our cigars in mouth, bourbon with ice next and we were talking about travelling when Sir John gone really quiet.

sir01_400In the beginning I thought it was the age. Sir John is not young anymore and like older men sometimes he gets lost in his thoughts. When this happens I usually stay quiet waiting. I have this talent to stay still and quiet like I’m not there. I do that too often when Sir John is around.

“I just remembered my tears collection!” Sir John said surprising me and this somehow made me think that age was really getting on him. A tears collection? How can you have a tears collection and how you keep it, in a jar?

“In my memories!” He answered like he could read my mind. Something he does that. “In my memories lad!” There was something sad in his voice.

“She was beautiful like a water nymph. Black hair, white porcelain skin and blue green cat eyes. She had something like …out of this world. Sad and cheery the same time.” I tried to imagine her, a nymph creature of the water, of the lakes.

“Every time she was looking at me I could feel her lucid eyes touching my soul and ...there were tears in these eyes lad. Tears of pain. And I was the only one who could see them. Or that’s how I felt,” he sighed.

“I felt that these eyes were looking only at me.” I took a deep breath and drunk a bit of my bourbon. My imagination was giving shape to this mysterious woman.

“She was a lady, lad. A real lady coming out of the clouds of a lost time, a long forgotten time. It was when women ruled the souls of glorious men. She was there when Mozart was composing his flute concerts and it was her that Lord Byron was writing about in his poems. She was Robin’s Marion, lad.”

Robin’s Marion; Robin of Locksley was one of the very few people Sir John admired. Robin was a real servant of the old king, a man of honour and Sir John always admired people of honour.

In his magnificent one hundred and six verses poem that had been the excuse for him to be awarded a knighthood from her Majesty the Old Queen, the word “honour” was mentioned forty four times. Calling a women Robin’s Marion was too much.

I sat straight on my chair and tried to watch expressions on his face. Small lines were around his eyes, deep lines showing pain.

“Where you in love with her?” I asked quietly.

“Was I? Was I?” he looked at me and I felt my breath stop. “Still I am lad. Still I am and I will always be!”

Sir John didn’t say anything else about his Marion that night, he actually never said anything else about her ever again but Marion lives in my mind. The light in his eyes gave shape to her and she became a creature I could have fallen in love.

In fact I did fall in love with her and still am! How many men are lucky enough to dream the real Robin’s Marion? How many men are lucky enough to meet her? And that was the first time I was jealous to Sir John. I was in love with his tears’ collection.


   
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