By Jason Geary

The bench is cold and uneven, narrow planks with gaping gaps between them, it is more gap than bench.

I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees and kick the dirt at my feet. A languid cloud of dust emanates outward from the impact. I forgot, granddad said it hadn’t rained here for six months. I feel a tear roll down my nose, it pauses at the tip, I shake my head and watch it hit the ground. The tear causes its own dust cloud, then disappears  in an instant.

I hear foot steps in the gravel behind me. Light but short. Grandma. She sits next to me and I feel her tiny hand on my shoulder. Another tear hits the dirt.

“This bench was never comfortable.” she laughs, “your grandpa loved it though.”

“I let him down didn’t I Grams?”

Her grip tightens then releases in a gentle rhythmic pat.

“He knew you’d come back someday. He was a forgiving man.”

As soon as she says it, I know she is right.  I was counting on him to forgive me.

“I don’t deserve it.”

“He wanted me to tell you, that it’s what you do now that will help you find out who you are.”

I look up at her. She is a picture of compassion, on the day of her husband’s funeral. An amazing woman.

I sit up and pull her to me. She sinks her face into my shoulder and begins to cry.

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