A collection of short stories and poetry on the subject of love.
The ground is rough, but you hold my hand as I hobble over it. My legs aren’t as strong as they used to be. You’re always telling me to use my stick, but I don’t need it when you’re there.
The bench is in sight, a familiar sight. The flaky white paint, the grooves in the wood, the slight wobble as you sit. The sun shines on it. I’ll be lovely and warm when we sit down.
You steady me as I stumble. You always hold me steady. My body lets me down these days, always cold and weak. It used to be so strong. Now it’s just tough. We both are, tough and heavy. But when you look at me, even after all these years, I feel light.
I remember when this bench was new. They put it in as a memorial to some Mayor. Nobody but the bench remembers him now. We sit. My little feet fit in the groove they’ve made over the years.
Our fingers are still entwined. I rub my thumb over your knuckles. Your skin used to be firm but now it is loose and brown. But it’s still your hand.
You’re watching the sun shine cheerfully over our village, like always. My eyes settle on the squirrel dashing around at our feet. He’s not shy of us anymore. The silence settles around us comfortably as we sit and let the sun warm us. There’s nothing left that needs to be said. There is just us: our bench, our hands, our silence.