Unspoken

"Browning. Very good"

The bell dinged as I walked through the front door of The Vintage Collector, an antique shop located in Old Port of Portland. I was greeted by Mr. Painter, who walked from the back storage area toward the front. He was a man of old age whom I've known for almost 7 years. He was a tall and slender man. He wore a stocking hat and always had his grey beard trimmed to the same length. His face was wrinkled with age and had creased with the habit of a joyful smile. He waved at me and brightly spoke, "Good afternoon, Miss Millie".

I responded while dragging my Wellies across the doormat and closing my umbrella, "Hello, Mr. Painter! Much business yet?".

"You just so happen to be the first lovely face to walk into my shop today", he said with a smile. I knew he was disappointed that the shop has been lacking business, but he made it seem as though my loyal absence was enough.

Since I was thirteen, I've taken the hike from my house to this antique shop every other week. Each visit, I would try to find something so unique I couldn't resist to pass up. And when I didn't find anything I would talk to Mr. Painter. The days I visited the antique shop were the best days, I was able to explore the many dusted items the shop held. Additionally, I was disappointed with each of my visits.

I first began visiting the shop when I was thirteen because I was specifically searching for something. When I was twelve, my dad died. My mom had spent a year mourning him. She hoarded his items and tried to keep the house as it had always been, as if nothing had happened at all. However, as the year drew to a close her moping began to lessen and lessen. And she began to pack up his things. Everything was given away, except my dad's pocket watch, an heirloom, and his large collection of poetry, which was given to me. One day, mom brought a man home with her. She told me Richard, was just a friend from work who would be staying with us for awhile. He stayed with us for three months. And within those three months, he made my mom both the happiest I'd seen since dad died and the most emotionally crushed. He left one day, took our car and dad's pocket watch. Mom told me he was always bringing it up and saying, "Do you know how much money you could get off of that?" and such. So I had come to the conclusion that he sold it to some antique shop or vender.

I walked through the aisles of the shop and was drawn to the back wall that was stacked with books. I skimmed the walk for any poetry and immediately stopped when my eyes gazed the name Robert Browning. I reached for the book and lightly dusted the dust off the cover. It smelled as though time had its impact on it. Who knows how long it had sat on that shelve. And yet I still yearned to open the old book and read from its aged pages. I brought the book close to my chest and continued to skim the shop until I reached back to the front.

"Did you find anything interesting?", Mr. Painter asked in pure curiosity. I held the book out in front of me.

"Hmm, Browning. Very good", he said with a nod.

I walked toward the checkout desk, "He's one of my favorite poets". I sat the book down next to the register.

Mr. Painter rung it up, "$3.99 Miss". I handed him four dollar bills.

"Keep the penny, Mr. Painter", I said with a smile as he handed me the hardcover.

I walked out the door and the belled dinged as I exited into the rain. Standing under the small awning, I shoved the book into my jean jackets large pocket and opened my umbrella. I walked down the alley to find a nice cafe where I could order tea and entirely consume myself in the poems. I crossed the alley when I saw a little coffeehouse with a large window in the front. Inside I could see only a few people sitting at tables, sipping coffee and typing on laptops. I walked into the cafe and soft acoustic music played through the speakers overhead. My Wellies squeaked on the wood flooring as I walked to the ordering counter. My cheeks grew heated with embarrassment as head turned my way.
"What can I get you?", the woman at the counter asked.

I briefly looked up at the menu, "Um, can I get a vanilla chai tea, please".

"Sure thing. And can I get a name for your order?", she smiled.

"Amelia".

"Thank you. If you could wait this will only be a moment".

I walked away from the counter and found a sit next to the large window. I opened the collection of Browning poems and begin to read as I waited for my tea to be finished.

"Who hears music, feels his solitude peopled at once".

I looked out the window and stared at the rain hitting the brick alley. His words make me think, they are both intellectually and beautifully written. This is why dad liked poetry so much. He found so much beauty and interest in them and with each new poem he found new purpose. I think that's what poet want you to do from their writing. I think they want to be the reason you find a new purpose in life. But that's a very odd concept to think about.

"Amelia!", I turned toward the lady's voice but in my way stood a young man who towered over me.