I love it when places breathe.
Every activity that happens on their ground becomes a respiration.
Every person in the vicinity becomes a rise and fall of the chest.
~*~*~*~*~
She was the rise of my chest.
I saw her, on a clichéd day in the middle of fall, sitting by herself on a red bench.
That bench quickly became ours. We occupied it every Sunday morning after getting coffee to go from Taylor’s. We sat on it, my arms around her, the day she told me that she had lost her grandfather. She sat just on the edge of it, eyes full of joy and wonder on May 13 (the day I proposed to her.)
Her blonde hair was rustling in the wind and there was a book in her lap. She looked so pensive, I remember thinking. Whatever she was reading must have been absolutely captivating – like if she didn’t insert her soul into the pages, she would miss every detail.
We sat on the red bench for hours at a time, conversing about nothing and everything. It became a part of us. We eventually bought a couch the exact same color as the bench, per Morgan’s request.
That couch was where we had our very last conversation.
She looked up as I sat down, her focus easily morphing into a gentle smile. I did my best to return the expression. I must not have done a very good job because she giggled and looked away from me and back to her book.
I can hear him walk up behind me. He doesn't get too close--the last time he did, he scared me.
“You miss her, don’t you?” He moves next to me now, following my gaze to the bench.
“More and more each day.”
“You can’t let her consume you like this.”
“Who says I am?” I'm a terrible liar.
“That look on your face says it all.” He's right.
“What would you do, Brian?”
“Nothing different.”
