Every day, I sat on the same park bench, pretending I was just another old man killing time. But the truth was darker. I was waiting for someone who never came.
Until a little girl handed me an old, painfully familiar coat that made my heart nearly stop.
My name is Mr. Whitmore. Seventy-five years behind me, and most days looked exactly the same.
Maybe that was why I kept going. Predictability. Order.
No surprises.
Every morning, I would boil water, pour it over a small cup of oats, and dice half a carrot into it. Strange, maybe, but it was my way. A carrot gives it a little crunch.
Then, I’d have a cup of decaf coffee.
Afterward, I washed the same chipped bowl, set it back in the cupboard, then wound the clock on the wall.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. Time behaved itself, unlike me when I was younger.
Meanwhile, I would lower myself into my old armchair, put on a record (always Sinatra), and read the morning paper cover to cover. Always the obituaries first.
I guess I wanted to make sure I wasn’t in them.
By ten sharp, I buttoned my worn coat and walked to the park.
The geese always met me there, waddling across the grass like they owned it.
“Morning, ladies,” I muttered to them. “Still prettier than I am.”
People in the park knew me, though not well.
“How are you today, Mr.
Whitmore?” Mrs. Johnson from across the street would call out, pushing her little dog in a stroller.
“Still alive, thank you,” I replied with a stiff nod.
Later, an old man with a cane would shout, “How’s the back holding up, Whitmore?”
“Still bent,” I barked. “Appreciate you asking.”
They thought I was just another lonely widower taking in some fresh air.
But my bench wasn’t chosen at random. No.
I sat there every day because, long ago, that was where we had sat.
“Clara,” I’d whisper. “You’d laugh at me now, wouldn’t you?
Eating carrots with oatmeal. Foolish old man.”
I could almost hear her chuckle, that teasing voice telling me I never knew how to cook.
Sometimes I answered out loud, which earned me a few puzzled looks. But I didn’t care.
Talking to Clara was the only part of the day that made sense.
When evening came, I’d come home, open a can of beans, and add a slice of bread.
Sometimes, I unwrapped one of those little caramel candies. Clara used to love them. I placed one on her saucer at night, back when we still had laughter in the kitchen.
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