8
Art could tellWes was growing more and more at ease at the community. He figured the move had been a lot for him, but certainly, time made it easier to adjust. They’d shared plenty of walks together over the past month or so, chatting away about this or that, and oftentimes nothing in particular, which satisfied Art just fine. And as they enjoyed another stroll through the woods, Art was delighted that Wes was so eager to share the experience withhim.
Just like on the other days, conversation came easily for them as they discussed books, movies, and music, and there was this connection in beingfamily—a shared history of oppression…of injustice…of cruelty…of pain. That wasn’t something he could share with many of the residents at their retirementcommunity.
When they reached the pond, they gravitated to a decaying pine log with gray bark covered in white moss on one end. They each found a seat on it, facing the pond, and took a little break as Art made them both a cup oflemonade.
“Did you sneak a little kick into it this time?” Wesasked.
“Oh, that’s only for special occasions, but if you want, I can grab us a little for next time. Life’s short,right?”
Wes laughed as they situated themselves and continued theirdiscussion.
It was some time before Art realized there was something eerily familiar about this. He couldn’t place what it was, not at first, but then he was transported back to the day when they sat on the bench beside the pond at their local park. He considered bringing it up, but in some ways, he felt as though speaking the words might spoil the moment, so he kept quiet. But he wouldn’t let it slip away from them, not like he had the timebefore.
“Kelly will be in town next week,” Wes said, interrupting hismusings.
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ll have to congratulate her if I get a chance to seeher.”
“You should come to dinner withus.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,Wes.”
“Not imposing at all. Hell, only so much we can catch up on when we chat nearly everyday.”
“I’d like that,” Artsaid.
“Good. It’ssettled.”
As they sat there, appreciating the scenery, the mallard family passed by, and Art noted, “Look how big they’ve gottenalready.”
“Only sixtoday.”
Art had noticed when the first chick had disappeared the time before, and there was something tragic about another loss, especially as Art recalled seeing this same mallard couple lose their entire family the previous year. As the family swam across the pond, the parents, in particular, seemed to be mourning their loss, searching around occasionally, perhaps just for food, but Art interpreted it as their searching for their missingbabies.
“That’s the way of the world, though, isn’t it?” Wes said. “I wonder if they get sad about it the way we do. They seem sad, don’tthey?”
“It’s difficult to say. I remember last year when they lost them all, they seemed horribly distressed for maybe a week, but then after, I wondered how much of their grief I was imagining and how much wasreal.”
“I guess we do that with people too. Every time someone loses someone they love, all we can do is see that from our own perspective of the people we’velost.”
“Of course. Everytime.”
Wes shook his head and chuckled a sort of bitter chuckle. “Well, did I ruin our nice walk orwhat?”
“You definitely didn’t ruin it. Death plays on my thoughts more and more these days, especially when it seems as though I’m constantly confronted with it in one way or another. It’s kind of strange the way such simple things can evoke the most peculiar of memories. The way the wind blows through a particular branch will take me back to a day when I was little and running around the woods. A certain bird will remind me of one I could swear I saw in my backyard just twenty yearsago…”
“A log you sit on with a friend makes you think of a certainbench…”
Like with his observation with the ducks, Wes’s words confirmed Art wasn’t alone in how their time on this log transported him back to so many years earlier. And as quickly as the conversation had turned dark, it lightened up for Art once again as he remembered a much more pleasant time…or at least a time more pleasant in his memory ofit.
“This might sound like an odd sort of question,” Wes said, “but doesn’t this remind you of that day? At the park, Imean?”
Art couldn’t still his smile. “I was thinking the same thing. I remember the sunshine glistening off the pond…and us talking about nothing in particular. You offering me acigarette.”
“Oh, thank God I quit that. I have enough problems as itis.”
Art’s smile transformed into a snicker. “Yes, I’m glad I never took it up, despite the temptation from such an attractive youngman.”
