by Sandra Anthony

I came to the park again today. The bench sits unobtrusively at the top of the bluff overlooking the river. It never changes, day to day or season to season, it simply sits and waits, taunting me. The doctor says that I should either approach it and make my peace with it or stop torturing myself. But I can do neither.

I’m closer to the bench than I’ve ever been, and this makes me jittery. Beyond the bench the snow swept river valley crawls towards the city skyline, stark white against dull grey. I turn away to the worn path lined with bare trees standing naked in the bitter wind.

The pathway is empty today. The rest of humanity shuns the frigid white landscape. But I couldn’t stay away. Something draws me as if a tendril of this place has knotted inside me, pulling me back when it can stretch no further.

A lone tree stands between the pathway and the bluff. The trunk holds me solid, and I turn back to the bench as a gust of wind dusts it with a thin, white skiff of snow.

I glance down at the bag in my hand filled with socks, clean underwear, and a red scarf with matching mittens made of wool as soft as an embrace. She’s always cold, has been since she was little, and I wanted to bring her something that would warm her.

The wind whistles through the bare branches above me. The crunch of compressed snow pulls my gaze away from the bench. A figure emerges from the tree line, shuffling towards me. I tense, waiting, still and silent. What if it were her?

“Got any change?” The coarse voice is unfamiliar. The oversized hood nearly obscures her face, but the eyes are not those I yearn to see. Hope plummets to my boots. The doctor says allowing hope to remain is fruitless but sometimes it comes despite my agreeing with him.

“I’m sorry.” And I truly am. “I didn’t bring any money.” Her shoulders sink, and she starts to turn away.

The bag scrapes against the tree’s rough bark, and the weight of its contents pulls at my hand. I can’t take it home with me like a sad reminder of what could have been.

“Wait.” I reach out and touch her sleeve though only the sensation of knitted gloves reaches my fingertips. “Take this. I brought it for my daughter but . . . she’s . . . she’s not here.”

She stiffens. Her wide eyes meet mine, dark brown, almost like those I loved for so many years. A wisp of chestnut hair clings to her cheek, yet—I stop myself from reaching out to brush it away. Her fingers close around the handle of the bag, and for a moment a thin band of fibre connects us. Then I release my hold, and she nods her thanks before turning back to the trees.

*****

I’ve stretched the doctor’s appointments out to monthly now. He tells me the same thing every time, and his words fall around me like dying flies. I tell him I’m doing better. It’s been weeks, maybe a month since I’ve been to the park. I leave his office and climb into my car.

Another bag waits silently in the back seat. Yellow this time, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window that hints at the winter’s relent. I’ve filled the bag with warm things again, a heavy yellow sweater, more socks and underwear, and the lavender soap she loved.

The car knows the way to the park. I barely have to think, and we are there, the bag and me. No one knows but us. I park near the tree. The bare branches show the tiniest hint of thickening buds at their tips. The biting wind has softened on its eastward trip over the mountains.

The bench sits in its solitary spot gazing over the brown valley dotted with grey snow in the shady spots. I walk beyond the tree and I’m nearly halfway between the bench and the tree before I stop. Not too far, but enough to feel I’ve achieved something.

The brown wood etched in graffiti looks the same. I wonder if she made any of those marks. If I went closer, would I see her name carved into the grain?

I catch a movement in the corner of my eye and turn to meet her. Those same dark eyes search my face. She still wears the heavy oversized coat but with the hood tipped back. The red scarf winds around her neck. A black toque covers her head.

“Have you seen my daughter?” It escapes before I can stop myself, and then more words come unbidden. “Her name is Marie . . . or sometimes Mimi.”

The dark eyes narrow and she shakes her head as she takes a step back. A tendril of dark hair escapes the toque, and her fingers swipe it away.

Her eyes turn wary and glance back towards the trees. I want her to stay, to tell me something important, to ease my pain. But my careless words hold us apart. The bag pulls at my hand as if the contents have turned to stone.

“Here, you can have this.” I set the bag between us, a garish yellow spot in a sea of brown grass. I turn away.

Her hand touches my arm, and I stop, glancing back at her, over my shoulder.

“Thank you.” She lays the words in the air. Something sticks in my throat, and my eyes water from the wind. I can only nod and continue to my car.

*****

I had a daughter. I know I did. I remember her soft newborn smell. Her wide eyes watching my every move. We were the best of friends for the longest time. Together we learned to walk and talk and sing and make friends, and too soon she was walking to school by herself.

Until one day her smile turned sullen, her eyes dulled, the friends took my place. And she learned new things she never shared with me. I hung on so tight as she drifted further away, leaving only disdain in her wake. So many years later I wonder if I should have, could have, done something different.

Summer heat ripples from the river valley, and strangers fill the pathway. A couple sits on the bench, and their dog sniffs the tufts of grass around the wooden legs. I walk past, not stopping until I reach the playground. Children’s voices laugh and squeal as parents hover close or sit on benches looking at their phones.

The green bag in my hand is too heavy, weighed down with sturdy boots, insect repellent, sunscreen, and lavender-scented toiletries—the things she’ll need through the warm summer days. The noise of children pierces my ears, and my eyes water in the intense sunlight. I turn my steps back towards my car.

The bench is empty now as I skirt around it, unwilling to get close enough to read the inscription on the plaque. A picnic table rests near the trees, and she sits on top facing outwards. The familiar dark eyes watch me, and she stands as I approach.

“Hi.” I stop in front of her, placing the bag carefully on the table beside her.

“Hi.” She smiles, and a whiff of lavender floats around us.

“What’s your name?”

“Anna.”

“I thought you could use this.” I motion to the bag.

“Thank you.” Her smile meets her eyes. The wind ruffles her long chestnut hair, and she tames it with her hand.

An invisible thread holds us for a moment, inseparably connected. Her hand reaches for mine, and I feel the papery softness of it all the way back to my car.

*****

Orange leaves flutter from the tree as I pass on my way to the bench. Anna is there, watching the river flow on its never-ending journey. The familiar chestnut hair ripples in the breeze. The weight of the bag in my hand grows with each step.

I think she will hear the pounding of my heart as I near the bench, but she doesn’t turn around. My chest tightens as I sit, placing the bag on the bench between us. The bag fills the space, hiding the plaque behind its bulk. The rippling river sends sparkling sunlight back to us.

My fingers trace the lines carved into the rough wooden seat. The “M” sends tremors from my fingers to my heart as we sit in silence on the bench where they found my daughter. Could I have saved her? I’ve asked myself that question again and again. I have no answer.

I know she’s gone. Only this bench remains—solid, secure, unchanging—while she has become a wisp of fragile memory, subject to destruction by the slightest puff of air. This bench held her when I could not.

“Do you think she lingers here?” The tremor reaches my voice.

“Yes, I think she does.” Anna’s voice is as thick as mine.

A gust of wind tosses rattling leaves over the bluff, willingly letting fate take them to whatever awaits in the valley below.

“This is for you.” I slide the bag closer to Anna, and the plaque that bears my daughter’s name glints in the sunlight. My fingertips brush the letters etched into the timeless metal. And like those letters, she is etched into my being—an ethereal part of her that is always with me.

I stand and walk to my car knowing, this time, I sat with her on the bench.