FINE-TUNNING OUR WRITING 2

It was very early in the morning, exactly 5:20 am, earlier than usual for the retired Martin and for any other human being, taking into account it was Sunday. After a whole life waking up at 6 to arrive on time to the high school where he imparted Literature lessons, he would now choose to relax comfortably in bed until the sun had risen and began to penetrate through his bedroom window. But that spring day a strange and uncanny feeling had come into him; it was a sensation of anxiety that invaded his body and he felt he should get up at such and inopportune time. Martin didn't know exactly what to do so he dressed up with the clothing he had left the night before on the small settee by the window, took the book that his daughter Clare has gifted him in his last 83 birthday and started reading it by the bedroom window. The nightingales were singing outside, in the garden that formerly had been the untidiest and wild of the neighbourhood and now was one of the most envied since the old teacher dedicated many of his free time to take care of it.  This twitter was mainly concentrated  all over the great old willow which Martin's great grandfather had planted some 150 years ago, according to the family record. Suddenly, there was silence, such a deep quietude that Martin was profoundly affected. He stood up as a spring and looked through the window. Under the centenarian willow there was a, let's  say, fragile boy, probably under ten, dressed in poor old clothes, reading a book. The vision was so shocking and out of the context that Martin rubbed strongly his eyes. For a long time that seemed endless, he stared at the boy, who was deeply absorted in his book, as it was his habitual place of reading, his space to enjoy novels and fantastic stories, a corner of his own garden. Then Martin crept carefully downstairs, without making a noise, opened the glass door onto the blooming piece of land and again padding softly so not to disturb the lad, he approached the tree. Coming near the ground, he inquired: "It seems a very interesting reading, doesn't it?" For the first time, the boy looked away from the pages and, smiling in a shy but charming way, said: "It is the book of my life". When the boy raised his head and they eyed each other Martin perceived that it wasn't the first occasion he had seen this child. Even his clothes were familiar to him. "Do you live near here?", Martin asked curiously. "I do", said the boy. "What about your parents, do I know them?" "Of course, you do". Martin began to suspect and with a hint of trembling in his voice stuttered: "is your-your name Ma-Ma-Martin?" "It is," answered him beaming openly. The astonished teacher stumbled and fell when he reacted to such an answer: It was himself.

All of a sudden he realized how quick life had passed, how ephemeral we are. His life had been a full one, he had enjoyed family, friends, travels,... With literature as a goal he had gave lessons, he had written inspiring books advicing people on how to take pleasure in plain things of life, such as he had done all these years. At this very moment he was content, satisfied of his trajectory and watching all his memorabilia passing before his eyes, he understood that the non desirable but on the other hand awaited hour had arrived. Now, he reckoned, is high time I wrote "The End" in "The book of my life".