The woman in the door of the wooden hut stood before Rufus. Her dark hair and her brown eyes were full of life though her life was hard.
Her focus reminded Rufus of the last time he saw his father. It was late at night and the old man sat at his desk, studying a photograph of his father who had been gone some thirty years. There was a light in the old man’s eyes. It wasn’t the light from the table lamp. It was another kind of light. It was the light of memory.
Or was it more? Was it the light of someone who has experienced some piece of the divine in his life? Rufus’ father never spoke of his father.
“Can I have some water?” Rufus asked the woman in the doorway.
The woman smiled. Instead of water, she invited him inside her one-room house. A house that was spotlessly clean. In the corner was an altar to some god or other. He didn’t ask since he knew it would be as rude as asking his father about his grandfather. She brought him a cup of tea and offered him a seat on one of the three wooden chairs.
Rufus took out his camera and pointed to it. “Can I take your photograph?”
The woman blushed, then shook her head yes.
Rufus pointed and snapped several pictures. Then he finished his tea. He thanked her for her hospitality.
It was a brief encounter but not as brief as the night he saw his father studying the photograph of his father.
As he walked up the path away from the woman’s house, he missed his father and his grandfather. Perhaps in another life. Perhaps.