A Pair of Ospreys
If only the benchseat could speak. It would retell a myriad of conversations that had taken place on this headland. Whispered confidences, coos of delight, pledges of love, appreciations of the changing colours in the ceaseless march of sunrises and sunsets.
Time had also marched on for Ada and Jim. In their seasoned years, they relished sitting here quietly, absorbing sounds of the sea, inhaling salt-laden air. Unlike the vista before them, the bench seat was quite unremarkable. Years of wind and rain had gnarled the timber slats, creating a beauty in the weather-worn effects. A small brass plaque, affixed to the seat many years ago, had become tarnished in the elements.
High above them, a pair of ospreys circled in an aerial dance; it was mating season.
“Did you know they pair for life?” he offered in a quiet, knowing voice.
“No, love. Tell me about it.”
“Yep. Monogamous. Use the same nest each year. They both have life-long attachment to the nesting site. The only time they take a new mate is if a partner doesn’t return after the migration.”
“Oh! That would be sad. Would you take a new mate if I didn’t return from the migration, love?” Ada asked distractedly.
“Never, love,” he was quick to answer. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. Nobody could replace you, Ada. You fill me up every day.”
Exhaling a small wheeze of exertion, Jim leaned forward and retrieved the woven hamper basket at his feet. In his late eighties, his flexibility had diminished. Placing it on his lap, he removed a tartan thermos-flask. With an unsteady hand, Jim poured a cup of tea for Ada and placed it with minimal spillage on the bench seat between them.
“There you go love. Enjoy your Bushells while it’s hot.”
“Thanks love. Remember how we used to take romantic walks along the sand below us when we were teenagers, Jim?” Ada asked sweetly.
“I sure do, I remember it all, Ada. Just like yesterday. I felt so proud that you were interested in me, a spotty boy from just three blocks away. You sometimes even wrote me letters and placed them in our letterbox right after we’d walked. And I’ll never forget the little currents of excitement I felt when you first let me hold your hand. I tingled all over.”
“We were about sixteen then weren’t we Jim?”
“Yep. Sure were Ada. And I still remember the jolt of electricity shooting from my toenails to the hair on my head when we first kissed. It was over there near that rock outcrop. Ha! I‘d leaned in tentatively but you latched onto my mouth and didn’t let go. It was like your lips had suction pads! I was shocked and thrilled by our first kiss, Ada. I thought you were so much more experienced than me!”
“No Jim,’ she giggled, “that was my first passionate kiss too. And I thought it was so magical. But have you ever gotten tired of me? Even as I’ve aged and become wrinkly?”
Jim winced. “Not for a moment Ada. You’re the reason I get up each day. Can you remember the line in that movie ‘How to make an American Quilt?’ Something about young lovers seeking perfection but older lovers sewing shreds together and seeing beauty in all the patches. Wish I could remember the quote, love, but it’s true. I’ve never tired of you and I never will. We’re that pair of Ospreys up there, Ada. This beach, this headland, will always be our special place.”
The agitated voice of a younger woman cut through the salt-laden air from behind their benchseat.
“Oh! Thank God! There you are Dad! I was starting to worry but I guessed you might be out here. Scored a nice day, you did, but it’s quite chilly now. Let’s re-pack your hamper and get you back inside.”
“Oh. Ok love. Can you help Mum to her feet?”
“Well, I’d love to be able to do that, Dad…. but we both know Mum died ten years ago.”
In the cooling September afternoon, a pair of ospreys continued their aerial dance above the headland while Jim’s daughter gathered his hamper from the benchseat. She kissed her fingertip and pressed it gently against the tarnished brass plaque attached to the gnarled timber. It was engraved with just a single word - ‘Ada.’
