I knew someone who, after his early morning devotion, would reach for an aged wooden box that held his cherished chewing stick.

Carved by time, it bore the marks of countless mornings, the grain worn smooth by the dance of his gnarled fingers.

He extracted one with deliberate care, a slender branch that had seen many a sunrise with him.

With measured rhythm, he placed the chewing stick between his lips, and the world became a silent witness to the intimate ballet of his jaws.

The stick found solace within his mouth, and he worked it patiently, a pendulum of oral tradition.

His molars, seasoned by time, ground against his fibers with a familiar movement, side to side, a timeless waltz.

Having concluded his ritual, he summoned his older daughter, Doris, with a soft-spoken authority, her name whispered through the air like the melody of an old song.

“Mma, bring my radio”, he muttered.

Pa, his weathered hands steadying his wrapper, could feel the dew on his worn slippers as he stepped outside into the cool, crisp morning.

The morning air greeted him like an old friend. The chorus of birds overhead serenaded him with melodies of nature’s orchestration. The grass, kissed by the dawn, exhaled a fragrance that intertwined with the memories etched on his soul. The mango tree where he stood whispered secrets in the language of rustling leaves, their caresses dancing across his aged and wrinkled skin.

Pa’s radio arrived in Doris’s hands, cradled like a fragile relic from the past.

Before sinking into the embrace of a timeworn sofa, he secured his wrapper with meticulous care. Each knot and fold held the weight of mornings past.

With a sigh that seemed to release the weight of a thousand mornings, he adjusted the dial on his beloved radio.

A known gospel song filled the air. He hummed along with the tune, his voice hoarse and cracking with age.

How often would I wake early to catch a glimpse of his daily ritual?

I would watch all of this with a sense of peace and contentment.

But now, I feel a sense of loss.

I missed the simple joy of watching Pa’s daily ritual.

I knew I could never replace the old man’s ritual, but I could still find comfort in the memories of it.

I knew someone I used to know.