The Breeze on My Cheek

I lay in bed watching the sunlight fill the room. The first beam of light always rested on her pillow to my left. A gentle grin filled my face. She always hated that beam of light waking her up in the morning. She’d give a couple of swift kicks to the back of my legs, signaling me to get out of bed and close the curtains. Then I’d return to bed and we’d lie there, begging for those moments to last a lifetime.

I rose out of bed, threw a robe over my shoulders, slid my feet into slippers, and made my way to the kitchen.

“Coffee this morning?” I asked into the ether, pulling two mugs from the shelf. No response, but I hadn’t expected one. I set the extra mug back in its home on the shelf and began to fix my morning coffee. I pressed the “Start” button and the machine began to whir as water slowly dripped into the mug. As I waited, my eyes drifted to the refrigerator. To a photo. My favorite photo. Margie sitting on the bench in Robert Park, fighting the wind that whipped her hair across her face, trying to get a good photo. She got her good photo, but I always liked this one best.

“How about the park today?” I whispered, pausing, waiting intently. A tender breeze kissed my cheek, letting me know that she agreed.

___

Robert Park hadn’t changed much in the years since we left the neighborhood. The same oak trees lined the walking path, their branches reaching overhead like cathedral arches. The same beds of impatiens bordered the playground, though the children squealing on the swings were different now—younger parents chasing after them with phones held high, capturing every moment.

I walked along the familiar route without thinking, entranced by the memories unfolding in front of me. Past the green field where we’d share a bottle of wine and lay out in the summer sun. Past the dog run where we’d spent Sunday mornings, back when we’d talked about getting a dog of our own. “After we retire,” she’d always said. “When we have the time.”

And then I saw it. Our bench. So many conversations we’d had, some trivial small talk about our day, some larger life decisions, like the one we had about finally moving. An urge to share a moment like that flooded through me.

But someone had beaten me to it.

A young woman—couldn’t have been more than twenty—sat on the left side, my wife’s side, with a sketchbook balanced on her knees. Earbuds in, pencil moving across the page in quick, confident strokes. She hadn’t noticed me standing there on the path, frozen like a fool.

I should keep walking, I thought. The young lady clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed by an old melancholic fool like me. Margie had always taken the lead with social niceties. She’d been the one who could talk to anyone, find commonality with a complete stranger. I was the one who’d needed her to pull me into conversations, into life.

But she wasn’t here to do that anymore.

I stood there, feeling the weight of my own cowardice, feeling the familiar grip of grief tightening around my chest. My mind told me to come back later. Or tomorrow. Or never. There were other benches in the park.

But this was our bench.

I closed my eyes and pressed my hand softly against my cheek. “Marge?” I whispered.

Her name hung in the air. A jogger passed behind me, narrowly avoiding me as I unconsciously and nervously swayed. And then—

A breeze.

Soft and tender, it brushed against my cheek where my hand had been. Not the gusty wind that rattled the tree branches. Not the draft that came before rain. This was the same gentle breeze from this morning. From every morning. The one that told me she was still here, in some way. Still with me.

Still pushing me forward.

I opened my eyes and walked toward the bench.

The young woman looked up as my shadow fell across her sketchbook. She pulled out one earbud, eyebrows raised in polite question.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I’d intended.

“Oh! No, of course not.” She shifted her bag to the ground, making room.

“Thank you.” I lowered myself onto the right side and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The wood was warm from the sun, worn smooth by countless visitors. From this angle, I could see what she was sketching: the view across the opening, the river, silhouetted by the bridges and tall buildings of the city in the background.

We sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just… quiet. The way two strangers sharing a bench should be.

“It’s beautiful here,” she said finally, resting her pencil on top of her sketch pad. “I’ve been coming here all summer. There’s something about this spot, you know? The air is different here.”

“Yes,” I said softly.

Margie had said the same thing, years ago. That’s why she’d always insisted on this bench.

“Did you know,” I started, then hesitated. The woman glanced over, waiting. “Did you know my wife and I lived just down there?” I pointed to the street out in the distance. “We would walk in this park every day that we could. Every time, sitting down on this bench, just like we are now.”

She leaned forward, maybe to get a better look at the expression on my face. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said with a slight embarrassment to her tone. “Did she pass?”

“Yes—and you don’t need to apologize,” I said. “She would have loved that someone was sitting here, enjoying the view. Making art. She always said places are meant to be lived in, not preserved like museums.”

The woman smiled, tentative but genuine. “She sounds like she was pretty great.”

“She was.” I looked out over the river, gently flowing on the calm afternoon. “She was the outgoing one. The brave one. I always let her do the talking, make the friends, decide which restaurant to try or which party to attend. And now…”

I trailed off, surprised at myself. I hadn’t meant to say all that.

“Now you’re doing it on your own,” she said quietly. “Coming here. Talking to random people on benches.” She offered a small smile. “That seems pretty brave to me.”

I felt my throat tighten. “Thank you. That’s… thank you.”

We sat together a while longer, not speaking. She went back to her drawing, and I watched the geese settle on the surface of the river, watched the light change as clouds passed overhead, felt the breeze—her breeze—stir the air around us.

When I finally stood to leave, my legs stiff from sitting, the woman looked up again.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m here most afternoons. If you ever want to sit again. I make pretty lousy conversation, but I’m good at sharing benches.”

“I might take you up on that,” I said, and realized I meant it.

___

By the time I left the park, the sun had already begun to set. My vision had grown fuzzier in recent months, and I didn’t enjoy tempting fate by driving after dark. However, it had been so long since I’d seen this area that I decided to take a quick stroll around the block before heading home. The streets and businesses had changed so much that I hardly recognized our first house as I passed by. Now clad in modern black siding, it resembled nothing of what it had been when we owned it. But inside, I could see a young family—mother and father feeding their child at the counter we’d installed, her design—and that set me back at peace.

I rounded the corner on Maple Street and almost froze mid-step. I hadn’t even thought the old dive would still be there, but sure as shit, there it was: that decrepit wooden sign still swaying in the wind, “The Yachtsmen Tiki Bar” outlined in the remaining shreds of teal blue paint. My mind transitioned from nostalgia to fear and shame upon seeing the sign. It represented my old life, the old me. Still, curiosity pulled me down the street, drawing me toward the entrance until I found myself face to face with the same rot-ridden door. An old, wooden ship’s wheel still adorned the center. The sign read “Open” but the bar looked deserted. Certainly no other customers were inside. I paused and looked up. In that moment, I was struck by a cocktail of sadness and nostalgia. It had been, to that day, 20 years and 126 days since I’d last touched alcohol. However, I still placed my hand softly over my cheek and asked, “Should I go in?” A long, agonizing pause followed as I stood alone on the sidewalk, studying the sailor’s wheel. I began to question why I wanted to go in. What would I get out of it? I closed my eyes, praying she’d convince me I wasn’t making a mistake. Suddenly, I felt that soft breeze kiss my cheek once again. I extended my hand to the door and pushed it open.

The door slammed shut behind me, echoing off the empty wooden walls. Stools were stacked on the bar top, chairs turned upside down over tables. Maybe they’d just opened, I thought, taking a few slow steps into the bar. The low light remaining from the sunset highlighted the layer of dust that covered the floor. I remembered the bar being dirty, but not this dirty.

“Hello?” I asked, leaning forward to peek if anyone was behind the bar. I received no answer and continued pacing slowly deeper into the bar.

“Hello!” I shouted, this time my voice disregarding normal restaurant volume. Still no response as I reached the back wall.

Maybe this was for the better, I thought, and turned back toward the exit. In that moment, I heard a faint whimper behind me. I stopped and spun around to find a door behind the bar that I hadn’t seen before. I pushed through the swinging door to find the kitchen. Still empty, but this time I could clearly hear a cry.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” I shouted. No words came back, but behind the wall, I heard another whimper.

I looked around the industrial kitchen, past the sea of stainless steel. I spotted the back door and hurried over to it, throwing it open and stepping into the alleyway. Empty. Perplexed, I closed the door and returned to the kitchen. The only other enclosed area in the kitchen was the freezer, back in the corner. I’d initially assumed it was empty, like the rest of the kitchen, but I could still hear the whimpering. I wandered over to the freezer door and pulled the heavy latch toward me, swinging the door open. It was warm inside, and at first I saw nothing in the walk-in, but the freezer extended further back, with a larger section a few feet in. I walked to the back, through the plastic curtain separating the two areas. As the final strip of plastic cleared my glasses, I found the source of the noise. The area was filled with dogs. One crate contained ten or so whimpering puppies, and five other crates held larger dogs, all haphazardly scattered across the concrete floor. I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket and found the flashlight. Some of the dogs were muzzled. All of them appeared malnourished and terrified. I sank to one knee, attempting to meet them at their level, and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here.”

I stayed back there with those dogs until the police and animal control showed up and guided me back to the bar to take my statement. One of the policemen pulled down one of the dusty bar stools, flipped it upright, and motioned for me to take a seat. He positioned himself opposite me behind the bar. I climbed up onto the stool, making eye contact with an older dog as she was carried out.

“Go ahead and start at the beginning, if you don’t mind,” the young officer said to me.

“Sure. Well, I used to live in this neighborhood and was walking around the block before heading back home.”

“And where is that?”

“Doylestown, sir.”

“Thank you. Continue.”

“I used to frequent this bar, a little more than I should have, and I just stopped outside.”

“And you had no idea this bar has been closed for a couple years now?” the officer asked.

“Oh, definitely not. It’s been years since I’ve been back here. I saw the sign in the window and I guess old habits got the better of me, so I walked in. The place was empty.” I gestured to the upside-down chairs and bar stools filling the place. “I yelled to see if anyone was here, and just before I went to leave, I could hear the puppies whimpering in the back, and that’s where I found them.”

“Well, it’s a hell of a thing you did today. We’ve had an uptick in these dog-fighting rings around here, so this will help us track down these assholes.”

“I’m glad I could still be of some help.”

The officer looked down below the bar. Leaning over, he rose with a glass bottle, golden-brown liquid sloshing in the bottom third. The tan label housed an oval emblem with the name “Van Winkle” printed within.

“Well, looks like you may still get that drink after all,” the officer said, resting the bottle in front of me, two glasses pinched between the fingers of his other hand.

I took a breath, fixated on the vintage whiskey. Meditating on a time in my life when trying such a drink would have been life-changing. Behind me, I heard the continual shuffling of people and the soft cries of confused animals. A quiet pocket of air gently kissed my cheek, and I turned back to the officer.

“Do you know where they’ll be taken?” I asked, pointing my thumb at a passing crate.

“Probably Second Chance Animal Shelter. It’s a shame though—those pups won’t have much of a different experience there than they did here,” he said somberly.

I picked up the dusty bottle and rotated it in my hand, examining its details as if I could taste it simply by looking at it. I set the bottle back on the bar and slid it gently toward the officer.

“I’ll have to pass. I have a volunteer gig at an animal shelter in the morning.”