Just like every day, the mysterious elderly couple has taken a spot next to us on the beach today. They arrive in silence, set down their things, stake out their beach umbrella, unfold their chairs, and sit quietly gazing at the sea, without exchanging a single word.
Around noon, as always in the most absolute silence, they settle in for an aperitif, which they prepare with meticulous precision. He takes two soft drinks out of the fridge and, after closing the door, covers it with a small green-and-white checkered tablecloth. She arranges whatever is on hand on the makeshift little table—sometimes small tuna sandwiches; other times, slices of cold cuts or cheese with breadsticks. Today, it looks like they’ve brought some fruit, peeled and cut into small pieces, which they spear with two small plastic forks.
The meal unfolds without a single word being spoken. As on every day, every bite and every sip of drink is taken at a measured pace. First one, then the other. They do not interrupt each other; they do not spear their piece of fruit at the same time; there is no conversation, not even an exchange of glances. Once the meal is over, as if rewinding a film, everything is arranged just as it was at the beginning, with the two of them gazing at the infinite horizon of the sea, which today is as flat as a plate. I’ve never seen them take out their cell phones to check notifications or read a newspaper or magazine to pass the time.
"What isolation," I think, "what a lack of communication between them! Aren't there any topics they could discuss or issues they could talk about?" Wildfires, climate change, war, political corruption, the brother-in-law’s latest mess, how expensive everything is, the neighbor’s latest underhanded trick, the grandson’s grades, or the daughter-in-law’s problem at work. Why don’t they talk? They must not get along. They’re so fed up with each other that they’d rather not talk at all to avoid arguing. I’m sure that when they were young, they couldn’t stop chatting and would exchange passionate glances; but now, just look at them—how sad! Or maybe it’s not even that—perhaps they’ve just been this dull from the start, each one concerned only with their own business. They got married so they wouldn’t be alone, because that was the custom back then, but in reality, they neither liked nor loved each other.
By the way, here they come. Just like every day, shortly after their afternoon snack, they had stepped out from under their beach umbrella for a quick dip, and now they’re returning to the tranquility of their folding chairs.
But… Wait a minute! He reached out his hand, and she took it. Could it be? I sit up a little to get a better look and strain my ears to hear if they might say something. And then the miracle happens:
“Mari Carmen,” he begins, “I’m having such a wonderful vacation with you.”.
“Me too, Ramón,” his wife replies.
—You know what? What I love most in the world is being together. Even if we don't do anything exciting, even if we just come to the beach to hang out and barely talk—but doing it with you—I just love it!
“I feel the same way,” she replies, looking at him affectionately. “After so many years together, what’s left for us to say? You already know what I want, and I already know what you’re thinking before you even say it. Just being by your side makes me happy, and I enjoy the simplest things.”.
"I love you, Mari Carmen.".
"I love you too, Ramón.".
They finished their conversation and continued walking hand in hand, gazing out at the endless blue.
With a dumbfounded look on my face, I reflect on how nosy I am, and an interview about contemplative prayer that I read a few days ago comes to mind. It explained that the great masters of prayer didn’t see it so much as a conversation (because so often God «doesn’t answer»), but rather as being alone with the One we know loves us.
As I follow the gaze of Ramón and Mari Carmen, I take in the beauty of the sky, the sea, and a small fishing boat passing slowly right in front of us. Rest, vacation, silence, nature, presence. Being with You, Lord.
