The Candy Store and the China Shop

                                                     

                          The Candy Store and the China Shop

                                                                                                            by Michael Curry

 Mr. Raymond, a senior who had lived in this corner of D.C. for many, many years, would walk the sidewalk beside the Potomac River from spring through fall every Sunday, a ritual he’d kept since he was ten. When he married at twenty‑five, the tradition became something he shared with his wife until the day she passed. He always sat at their favorite bench beneath their favorite cherry blossom tree.

His mind often drifted to years gone by, searching for answers that still remained unsolved as he adjusted his fedora and stared across the waters of the Potomac. His eyes moved slowly over the landscape with a faint, knowing smile. Sometimes I would sit with him on those Sunday afternoons, talking about everything and nothing in particular. He’d pause, turn his head toward me, and say, “I miss my wife.” You could feel the grief etched into his face, a weight he had carried for years.

On one of his good Sundays, his thoughts drifted even further back, and he told me how, in those days, making the right decision often meant survival. “Times were hard then,” he said. “Everything depended on solid judgment.”

"When I was a child," he started, " the neighborhood grocery store had glass jars full of penny candy on the counter; I could almost hear it calling my name. My mother would, on occasion, give me a dime to spend, and I'd blow it all on Bazooka bubble gum, "he chuckled. "Now you can't even buy the wrapper it came in for that much. It seems that the whole candy store is full of treats.  Every sugary treat your heart desires lies before you, waiting, beckoning you to come in.  The doors are now open wide for all to run wild and grab what they want, enough to have you bouncing off the walls for days. For a price, of course.  Fulfilling your greatest sugared dreams. And a few doors down from the candy store was a fine china shop full of expensive, elegant, refined pieces that would add to your social standing and impress. And that, in itself, creates another issue: responsibility.  If you even looked at that stuff too hard, you may break it. Both places had things people wanted, and both places could cost you dearly."

For a moment he sat silent, bent over, his arms resting on his legs, looking at the ground.  "Y'know, son, I remember walking along this very same walkway long ago when I was about 12 years old and saw some silver coins shining right there, just at the edge of the waterline. I walked over and plucked them up; they were dimes and nickels from the 1800s and one silver dollar. I guess that was my lucky day.  I still have them. 

"I've walked all around this river for years and have been that lucky again.  Besides, I'm too old for treasure hunting. But I feel blessed, still surrounded by treasure.  I've been in every museum around here. Hell, I've been through the Smithsonian buildings more times than I can count. I've paid my respects to every statue from the Capitol building to the Lincoln Memorial; I've climbed to the steps of the Monument at least 4 times.  In my younger days, of course"  

"Have things changed much since then?" I asked.

"Things are always changing; some are good, some are bad.  Take that barrier there; you used to be able to walk right to the water's edge.  Now it's a bunch of wrought iron with spikes.  Kinda tells you something, doesn't it?  

 A group of runners familiar with Mr. Raymond stopped, had a quick conversation, and moved on.  He enjoyed every minute chatting with them.  You could tell that he didn't live a dormant life.  I believe the only time that he sat still was when he came to his favorite spot.

The following Sunday, I was doing my usual walk by the river. I noticed that the Potomac was unusually still that Sunday, the kind of stillness that made the cherry blossoms look suspended in air rather than falling. From a distance, I could see Mr. Raymond sitting on his bench the way he always did — one hand resting on the worn wood, the other lightly touching the pocket where he kept the old silver coins. His breath came slow, steady, thoughtful.

I could see that he wasn’t alone.

A man walked up beside him and sat without disturbing a single blossom. Well‑dressed, dark suit, polished shoes, posture straight as a monument. Not young, not old—ageless, like river stones. His presence didn’t intrude; it simply was, like a shadow cast by something not yet seen.

Mr. Raymond didn’t startle. He only turned his head slightly.

Not to disturb them, I sat a bench away. They never noticed me, but I was far enough to hear the conversation.

“You’ve been walking this path a long time, haven't you, Raymond?” the man said. His voice was calm, warm, but carried a weight beneath it — a weight that felt like history itself.

“Since I was ten,” Mr. Raymond replied. “My wife and I… we used to walk it together.”

The man nodded, as if he already knew.

For a moment, they watched the river. A blossom drifted down and landed on the man’s shoe. It didn’t stay long — it dissolved, like mist touched by sunlight.

“You’ve lived carefully,” the man said. “Not grabbing too much. Not breaking what wasn’t yours.”

Mr. Raymond chuckled softly. “Life’s a candy store now. Everything sweet, everything easy. Folks grab whatever they want.”

“And the china shop, what about that?” the man asked.

“That’s the part they forget,” Mr. Raymond said. “All that fragile stuff. All the things that matter. You break enough of it, the whole place comes down.”

The man’s eyes softened. “You understood that early.”

Mr. Raymond reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver dollar. He held it between his fingers, letting the light catch the worn edges.

“Found this along with some other coins when I was a boy,” he said. “Right down there by the waterline. Never knew why they mattered so much.”

“They mattered because you noticed,” the man said. “Most people walk past the old things. The quiet things. The things that whisper instead of shout.”

Mr. Raymond looked at him fully now. Something in the man’s face — the stillness, the patience, the way the air around him seemed to hum — made a truth rise in Raymond’s chest.

“You’re not from around here,” he said.

The man smiled. “I’m from everywhere people make choices.”

A breeze moved through the blossoms. The river shimmered. Mr. Raymond felt warmth in his chest, not painful, not frightening — just full. Full in the way a final understanding is full.

“Am I done?” he asked quietly.

“You’ve walked your path,” the man said. “You took only what you needed. You broke nothing that wasn’t yours. You kept the china standing.”

Mr. Raymond exhaled, long and peaceful.

The man placed a hand on the bench, just beside Raymond’s. “You lived the way the Custodian hopes people will live.”

Raymond’s eyes widened — not in fear, but in recognition. “Custodian,” he whispered. “So that’s what you are.”

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

I heard what Mr. Raymond said, but I had no idea what he meant.

The warmth in Raymond’s chest deepened. His body relaxed. His fingers loosened around the silver coin, letting it fall gently onto the bench.

He leaned back, eyes half‑closed, a small smile forming — the kind of smile a man wears when a lifelong question finally receives its answer.

The man stood.

Cherry blossoms drifted through him as if he were made of light.

“You kept the balance,” he said. “Rest now.”

And Mr. Raymond did.

I stood up and walked past them, and they never noticed I was there. I continued my walk as far as I could go and started heading back home. I'd catch him on my return.

The walk back felt lighter than usual. The air was warm, the river calm, and the cherry blossoms drifted in slow spirals, catching the sunlight like falling pieces of memory. I expected to see Mr. Raymond still on the bench — the same way he had every Sunday since childhood.

I saw him.

But something was wrong.

Mr. Raymond wasn’t sitting upright, wasn’t waving, wasn’t adjusting his hat or patting the bench beside him. He was curled gently against the wooden slats, head tilted, hands resting loosely in his lap. A faint smile touched his face — soft, serene, almost childlike.

I stopped.

The world didn’t.

Blossoms kept falling. The river kept moving. People walked past with quiet glances, respectful but distant.

I approached slowly, as if any sudden movement might disturb the peace Mr. Raymond had found. The closer I came, the more I felt it — a strange feeling in the air, like the last echo of a conversation that had already ended.

“Mr. Raymond…?”

No answer.

Just the smile.

A woman nearby stepped forward. “He wasn’t alone,” she said gently. “There was a man with him. Well‑dressed. Sat with him for a long time. They talked… quietly. Then the man left, and Mr. Raymond closed his eyes.”

I swallowed. “Did you see where he went?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t walk away. He just… wasn’t there anymore.”

I looked down at the bench.

A single silver coin rested beside Mr. Raymond’s hand — worn, old, edges softened by time. One of the coins from the story he’d told. The story about being ten years old and finding treasure at the waterline.

When I picked it up. It was warm.

Not from the sun. Not from the bench. Warm in a way that felt intentional.

I sat beside Mr. Raymond; the coin rested in my palm, the river stretching out before us like a long memory. The cherry blossoms drifted across the water, dissolving as they touched the surface.

I whispered, “You saw him, didn’t you?”

Mr. Raymond’s smile didn’t change, but I knew I felt the answer anyway—felt it in the warmth of the coin, in the stillness of the air, in the way the river seemed to pause for just a moment.

The Custodian had come.

Not for judgment. Not for punishment. But for acknowledgment.

Mr. Raymond had lived a life that kept the balance — never taking too much from the candy store, never breaking what belonged to the china shop. And the Custodian had honored that.

I closed his hand around the coin.

A promise. A reminder. A calling.

I looked at Mr. Raymond one last time, memorizing the peace on his face, the quiet completion of a life well‑lived.

“I’ll keep the balance,” I said softly.

And for the first time, I understood what that truly meant.

The days after Mr. Raymond’s passing felt strangely quiet. The bench by the Potomac was still there, the blossoms still fell, the river still moved — but something in the air had shifted. And I carry the silver coin everywhere, tucked into his pocket, its weight a constant reminder.

At first, it was just memory. But then, small things began to happen.

I started to notice details I had never cared about before: the way sunlight caught on the railing, the faint cracks in the stone walkway, the sound of a bird’s wings slicing the air. I found myself slowing down, paying attention, as if the world had been whispering all along and I was, only now, learning to listen.

One afternoon, standing at a crossroads, I felt the coin warm against my palm. It wasn’t glowing, wasn’t magical — just warm, like a hand resting gently on his own. I paused. For a moment I had thought to take the easy path, the one that promised quick reward. Instead, I turned toward the harder road, the one that demanded patience. The warmth faded, but the decision felt right.

I began to understand: The coin wasn’t treasure. It was a compass. A reminder of balance. A quiet inheritance from Mr. Raymond — and perhaps from the Custodian himself.

And though he never spoke of it aloud, he carried the awareness with him: that life was both a candy store and a china shop, temptation and fragility, abundance and consequence.

The Custodian watched, not to punish—only to see if I would keep the balance.

I closed my hand around the coin and smiled faintly. I wasn’t afraid. I was ready to walk the path with new eyes. And when my time comes near, I’ll come back to this spot and return the silver coins to the river.

And the river will remember, even if no one else does.