“Oh dear…”
“I remember that Weston died and I didn’t.”
She wiped her cheek.
“Sometimes ordinary happiness doesn’t feel like enough.”
I looked at Charlie, who was trying to reconnect the train cars.
Then I looked back at her.
“Weston didn’t
jump into that river because he expected anything from you. He wanted you out of the water.”
“Sometimes ordinary happiness doesn’t feel like enough.”
Sloane began crying.
I moved beside her and put my arm around her shoulders.
I sat beside her until she could look at me again.
“He would’ve been glad you got to grow up.”
Sloane began crying.
Before leaving, she asked whether I’d ever returned to the riverside park.
“Not in years,” I said.
“There’s a bench where Weston used to sit with me.”
I looked at the book in her lap.
“Would you show me?”
She asked whether I’d ever returned to the riverside park.
She nodded.
We agreed to go the following afternoon.
After they left, I opened the closet in the guest room.
Weston’s old box was still there.
I lifted the lid.
We agreed to go the following afternoon.
Inside were photographs,
college papers, and a roll of packing tape he’d somehow never used.
Now there was a place I wanted to see.
A place where my son had once sat beside a little girl, waiting patiently for her to finish a sentence.
Now there was a place I wanted to see.
***
The following afternoon, Sloane took me to the riverside park.
We stayed on the walking path, well away from the water.
She pointed toward a wooden bench.
“That’s where we used to read.”
Sloane took me to the riverside park.
I sat down.
“Did he ever talk about college?”
Sloane smiled.
“He said college sounded exciting, but he was scared he’d miss everybody.”
I sat down.
I looked toward the trees.
“He never told me that.”
“He said you’d probably cry if he did.”
I laughed, then wiped my eyes.
“He was right.”
“He said you’d probably cry if he
