It was the day before my fifth birthday. The whole household was busy preparing for my grand celebration. Playing in the garden, I looked at my neighbour’s deserted house.

I always had a strange attraction to that house. It spoke to me. The crevices and cracks were like wrinkles left by time, each bearing a thought, a story. What particularly attracted me was the nameplate. In French, it was written as: La Maison de Martins. Paix et amour. I knew the letters to be English, but could not make out the meaning.

An uncle of mine whom I thought of very highly spoke this beautiful language. He had explained to me, “It means a home for the Martins.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, but in the most flamboyant tone, “It also mentions peace and love. I think they added those two words for a touch of elegance”. Since then I knew I had to learn this beautiful language.

Caught in my revelry, I was awakened by a sudden loud noise. My mother informed me the new neighbours were moving in. I hoped for a new friend. To my dismay, a frail elderly woman was moving in. My mother warmly welcomed her and invited her to my birthday party. She readily accepted.

Looking at me, she asked, “You want to hear a story?”. My face lit up, for no 5-year-old can resist a story. What followed was afternoons full of stories for years to come. We spoke of many things, stories, mostly hers. Of sudden loss, exceptional happiness and so much more.

That evening when my mother came to pick me up, the lady remarked, “She is a very good listener”. Before we left, she gave me a piece of sandalwood as an early birthday present. To this day, the smell of sandalwood reminds me of her and her stories.

I carry her words in my heart and I am still listening.