In Waterloo there is a bench. Weathered, it sits in shadow, paint long eroded, mold spots claiming the odd crack; but it remains strong, boards solid, surface firm under pressure.
There is a plaque.
Dr. D—- D—-
1967 – 1997
Sit here and think awhile
It has been ten years.
Along its length, across a distance best measured in strides, there is a stand of trees. Under the watercolor white-blue sky, sun concealed by paint-splotch clouds, their leaves cast a silent shade. Grass lightens at the edges and darkens further in, but never turns to blackness. The air is silent. Still. Everything is; there is no anticipation, no fury, no convulsive release. We are in the midst of a long, slow breath.
thik. The sound of a leaf falling on grass. In the distance the faint snap of grass being pulled by over-eager beaks. An insect buzzes past, its high-pitched beat frantic in the hushed even air. My eyes follow an undulating line of weeds, rest again at the silent trees. In my mind I will get up and walk towards them; empty-handed I will enter their screen and never come back.