The Lost Art of Gratitude

She ground the coffee, alone in the kitchen, savouring the smell of the grounds. She thought of Italy, and of the little coffee bar in Siena where she had stood at the high tables and drunk coffee with her friends. That was many years ago, and she was a different person now, and they were scattered to the four corners, as so many of us are. Were they happy? she wondered. For she wanted for them only that—happiness and wisdom, if their hearts were open to these two things, these principal things, that were the foundation of the good. I have been so fortunate, she thought, and Cat so unfortunate. She was grateful for that—for her own good fortune, that is, she was grateful. And she hoped that things would change for Cat, but she feared that they would not. We are condemned to repeat our failures, she thought, and some do so all their lives, to the very end, elderly children who have never learned.

She took the coffee through and put the cups down on the small table beside the piano. Jamie, seated at the keyboard, had his fingers on a chord and played it gently. Isabel sat down and waited for him to begin.

“Go on.”

It seemed to her that he was blushing. It was unusual for him to be embarrassed to play before her; they had done that countless times before. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not sure how it’s going to sound.”

She sought to reassure him. “It’ll sound just fine. It always does.” She looked at him. “You don’t have to—if you don’t want to.”

“No, I will.”

She asked whether he had given it a name, and he thought for a moment. “No, I don’t want to. It’s just a tune I’ve made up. Nothing important.”

“What’s it about? Olives? Or potatoes dauphinois?”

He smiled. “I suspect nobody’s ever written a song about potatoes dauphinois.” He played another chord, as if he were looking for something on the piano. “This is about losing things,” he said. “About thinking you’ve lost something, and then finding you haven’t.”

Isabel sat down next to him, on the piano stool. I would go ten thousand miles for you, she thought; as she was now sure he would for her. That was another song altogether, something about turtle doves.

Jamie began.What we lose, we think we lose for ever,

But we are wrong about this; think of love—

Love is lost, we think it gone,

But it returns, often when least expected,

Forgives us our lack of attention, our failure of faith,

Our cold indifference; forgives us all this, and more;

Returns and says, “I was always there.”

Love, at our shoulder, whispers: “Merely remember me,

Don’t think I’ve gone away for ever:

I am still here. With you. My power undimmed.

See. I am here.”

The music accompanying the words was simple, but it followed their mood closely, fittingly, as a well-made garment will follow the shape of the body. When he reached the final sentence, the notes became softer and died away.

Isabel sat transfixed, as did Jamie, and nothing was said for a long time; nor did they move—they were quite still, as they were when they heard the noise outside, the yelping sound: Brother Fox.

Isabel looked anxiously at Jamie. “I hope he’s not in distress.”

“No,” said Jamie. “He’s singing.”