07/06/2026
Bon Dia
Every morning of the year, at sunrise, I set off with my dog Sunny.
The route rarely changes, although the seasons do. The almond trees blossom and fade. The fields turn green, then gold, then brown. New houses have appeared where there were once natural mountains. Visitors come and go. Dogs age. People move away.
And every June, as predictable as the swallows returning to the village, an old man appears on his terrace.
He is always dressed.
Not dressed in the casual way of someone stepping outside for a moment, but properly dressed. Ready for the day. Trousers pressed, shirt buttoned, shoes on his feet. As though he has somewhere important to be.
As I pass below, I call up to him.
"Bon dia."
And he replies, exactly the same way he has for as long as I can remember.
"Bon dia."
Nothing more.
We have never exchanged names. We have never stopped to talk. I doubt he would recognise me if we met in the plaza, the supermarket or anywhere else in my village. Our acquaintance exists only in that narrow window between darkness and daylight when I walk past his house and he sits on his terrace waiting for the morning.
For sixteen years this has been our ritual.
Sixteen years is long enough to watch a person grow old.
When I first saw him he was already an old man. His back was straighter then. His movements were quicker. These days he moves more carefully with a walkingstick. The walk from his home to the plaza is no more than five minutes for most people. For him it takes forty-five.
Yet every morning he rises.
Every morning he dresses.
Every morning he steps out onto that terrace.
I often wonder what he has seen.
He must remember roads that were little more than tracks. He must remember fields worked by hand and harvests gathered without machines. He has seen Spain change beyond recognition. He has watched villages empty and then fill again. He has seen foreigners arrive, people like me, settling into homes that once belonged to local families.
I wonder what he thinks of us.
Whether he welcomes the change or merely accepts it as another season passing through.
Perhaps he fought in no wars but remembers the stories of those who did. Perhaps he spent his life farming. Perhaps he worked in a factory, raised children, buried friends, celebrated weddings and stood beside hospital beds. Perhaps he has known great happiness. Perhaps he has known grief so deep that he rarely speaks of it.
I will probably never know.
And perhaps that is why he fascinates me each morning to greet him.
Because each morning he reminds me that every old face contains a history invisible to everyone else.
To me he is simply the man on the terrace.
To himself he is the sum of ninety years of living.
One day, I know, he will not be there.
One June morning I will walk the familiar path with my dog Sunny. The sun will rise over the hills. The swallows will dart through the warm air. I will look toward the terrace and find it empty.
There will be no "Bon dia."
No reply.
Just silence.
And I will realise that a small part of my morning, a part I never truly owned, has gone forever.
Until then, I will keep walking. Seeking the gold colour in the sky.
And tomorrow, if he is there, I will look up and say what I have always said.
"Bon dia."
And from the terrace, if I am lucky, he will answer.
"Bon dia."
