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Articles: Moral Stories | My Father's Gift
- Mr. Kiran Ravuri
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“Would you care for more coffee, sir?”
He was still gazing out the window and hesitated be- fore releasing his thought; then he turned to her. “Pardon?”
“Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“Yes,” he said, “that would be nice. Thank you.”
His words, slightly accented, were in the rhythm of another language. Janet held out the small tray, and he put his cup on it. “Were you visiting in Brussels?”
“No,” he said, “I own a small piece of land on the coast of Belgium, and there is one spot, beneath an old tree, that looks out over the water. Every year, at this time, I go there.”
“I hope you’ll be celebrating Christmas with family.”
“Yes. Tonight there will be five generations at one table.”
His accent was almost Russian, she thought, but gentler, and she noticed that in each letter t there was the hint of a d.
She filled his cup. “And the children can’t wait for tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“They are excited, ”he said, “but they’ll open their pres- ents tonight, on Christmas Eve, after the big dinner. ”He took his coffee off the tray. “That is the Polish tradition.”
“Is that where you’re from? Poland?”
“Yes, from Nizkowice, in eastern Poland. Well, now it is. When I was born, the town was part of Russia. It belonged to Poland again when I left.”
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