One Last Goodbye

The smell of Wisteria drifted lazily on the spring air, sweet and faintly bruised, as if the petals themselves were holding their breath.

The woman sat on the far end of the bench, ankles crossed neatly, a paperback in her lap but unopened. She didn’t look up when the man sat down. He left a respectful space between them.

"Hope I'm not taking your spot," he said after a pause.

She smiled, barely. “Public bench. No one owns it.”

He nodded, hands folded in his lap. He looked like a man unused to idleness—still in pressed slacks, dress shirt rolled at the sleeves. No tie, but the collar said he’d recently worn one. They watched a squirrel dart beneath the hedge.

“I used to come here with my daughter,” he said. “When she was little.”

The woman glanced at him, then back to the slow ripple of the pond beyond the path.

“Sweet.”

“She’d always bring breadcrumbs. I told her it wasn’t good for ducks, but she insisted they liked it.”

“Children usually know what animals like better than adults do.”

“True enough.”

A silence settled. The kind that isn’t awkward, just full. Birdsong floated from the canopy. Somewhere nearby, a lawnmower started up and stopped again. He leaned back against the bench, exhaling slowly.

“She would’ve turned twenty today.”

The woman didn’t flinch, but her eyes softened.

“Big milestone,” she said.

“Feels like something I should mark. You know, acknowledge it somehow.”

“Makes sense, coming back here.”

“Yeah.” He tapped his knee rhythmically. “She used to name all the ducks. Gave them personalities. One of them, she said, was an accountant.” That drew a faint laugh from the woman.

“A very serious duck, I hope.”

“Oh yes. Crunching numbers from his lily pad office. Wouldn’t let the others slack off.”

They both smiled, and for a moment, it felt like an ordinary conversation. Then the quiet returned, heavier now.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said.

He looked at her.

“About your daughter,” she clarified, softly.

“Thanks.”

Another pause.

“She would’ve liked you,” he added,

without looking over. “I doubt that,” she murmured.

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve got that calm thing. People who don’t rush to fill the silence.”

“That’s just practice.”

“Practice?”

“Mm.” She shifted. “Learning when to speak and when not to. Some silences shouldn’t be filled.”

He nodded, slowly.

The pond rippled again as a breeze passed.

“You here for anyone?” he asked, after a long while.

“No,” she said too quickly. Then added, “Yes.”

He waited, but she didn’t elaborate.

“I used to see a couple here all the time,” he said instead. “They’d sit on this bench. Every Tuesday, like clockwork.”

“I’ve seen them too.”

“The woman always brought a thermos. The man had terrible posture. They never spoke, but they always looked… comfortable.”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s the best kind of relationship. The kind where nothing has to be said.”

“Or,” she replied, “maybe that’s the kind where too much was already said.”

He looked over at her sharply.

But she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze had drifted to the pond again, where two ducks were circling each other in a lazy spiral.

He spoke more quietly now.

“I remember one summer she refused to speak for nearly a week.”

The woman blinked.

“She said words made things too real. That if she didn’t say them out loud, they couldn’t hurt her.”

The woman gave a soft, breathy laugh—more an exhale than amusement.

“That sounds like something I might’ve said.”

“You would’ve liked her sense of humor.”

“Dry?”

“Like sandpaper. She once renamed the family dog ‘Clerk’ just so she could shout ‘Be quiet, Clerk!’ like a judge.”

The woman laughed again, this time more openly, but still careful—still folded in on herself.

“She had a thing about names,” he said. “She used to make up new ones for herself every few months. Some of them completely unpronounceable.”

“She liked to reinvent,” the woman murmured. “Trying on different versions to see which one fit.”

He nodded. “Like costumes.”

“Or armor.”

A long pause stretched between them.

“One time,” he said slowly, “she covered the mirror in her room with old postcards. Said she was tired of being reminded of a face that didn’t feel like hers.”

The woman turned toward him a little, something shifting behind her eyes. “What was on the postcards?”

“Places she said she wanted to go. Mostly cliffs. Ruins. A lighthouse.”

“She didn’t want to be found,” the woman said quietly.

He nodded again, but more solemnly.

“No. Not then.”

The wind changed direction slightly, lifting the scent of cut grass and something faintly metallic.

“She hated thunder,” he added. “But loved the sound of rain against the roof. Said it reminded her of typing.”

“She liked old things.”

“She did.”

A silence passed that felt less like a pause and more like a page being turned.

“Do you ever wonder,” the woman asked, “what she would have been like? If things had… gone differently?”

He exhaled slowly. “All the time.”

“What do you see?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone with paint on her sleeves and too many books on the floor.”

The woman smiled faintly.

“And tea. Always cold before she remembered to drink it.”

He smiled too. “Yes.”

“She never liked endings,” the woman said. “Always stopped reading two chapters before the finish.”

“Said the endings in her head were better.”

The man looked down at his hands. “She was probably right.”

A child’s laughter echoed in the distance, too high and bright for the mood between them. A breeze rippled the surface of the pond.

Her hands were folded now, pale against the navy blue of her dress. The paperback in her lap remained unopened.

He studied her face for a moment.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, gently.

He didn’t ask again.

A mother and child passed on the gravel path. The girl was maybe four, dragging a stick along the edge of the bench as she walked. The scraping sound made both adults flinch slightly.

“She used to do that too,” he said.

“I remember.”

He turned to her. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“I thought you said we didn’t know each other.”

“I said you didn’t know me.”

He went still.

The birds were suddenly louder.

He stared at her—at the curve of her jaw, the voice that felt like a dream half-remembered.

“You—” he began, then stopped.

“Don’t,” she said, barely a whisper.

She finally opened the book in her lap, just to have something to look at.

He shifted closer, only slightly.

“She used to draw,” he said. “All over the walls.”

“Animals?”

“And ships. Planets. Once she drew a six-legged horse with three eyes. It had a name, too, but I forgot it.”

“She said it came to her in a dream.”

He nodded, throat tight. “I thought we’d paint over it someday. When she got older.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“No,” he said. “I won’t.”

Another silence, raw-edged and aching.

“I used to stand on the opposite corner,” the woman said finally. “After.”

He didn’t breathe.

“Just to see if the lights were on. Just to know if you were still… there.”

He looked down. “They told me I couldn’t see you.”

“Same.”

A long pause.

“I wasn’t allowed to get close,” she whispered. “But I had to try.”

He finally looked at her. “I didn’t know you were there.”

She gave the faintest of nods. Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t cry.

He looked out over the water.

“You came today,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

She hesitated. “Because it’s today.”

He nodded.

The pond shimmered, silvering with late afternoon light.

“She used to leave daisies in the mailbox,” he said.

The woman turned.

“I know,” she said.And stood.

He rose too, but said nothing.

They looked at each other—really looked—for the first time.

And then after a brief final smile, she turned and walked away.

He watched her go, wiping one final tear.

"I did know you, Honey…,” he said just under his breath, “Happy birthday,"