Thursdays on the Bench

I started sitting on that bench every Thursday at six because it was the only place quiet

enough to breathe after my mom died. The park bench overlooking the pond, where the light

hit the water just right before sunset. I wasn't looking for anything. Definitely wasn't

looking for him. He showed up the third week, sat on the other end without asking,

and started humming this old jazz tune I didn't recognize. Every Thursday, same time,

same bench, same song. He never said a word at first. Just hummed and

sketched in this worn leather notebook, pages curling at the edges. I was so deep in

my grief I barely noticed him becoming part of my routine. Until one evening when I was crying