The Memorial

We were worried that it was gone. That in the buying of the business, in the exchanging between hands, that the memorial was lost. And in my alcohol-induced openness, yet not quite drunkeness, I would have stormed the establishment and burnt it to the ground.

But we turned into the parking lot. We rushed out of the car, key in ignition, engine slowly fuming, running to the door. And through the glass we saw the bench, the plaque which showed our father's name. Safe, in tact, whole. Sitting there in place, waiting for some weary soul to rest a while, thinking of what food they wanted to buy, thinking of nothing in particular.

We sat on it for a minute or two. She mentioned how before, when it was the old store, that she saw the bench and sat on it and could almost feel him there beside her. But now, with this new grocer in its place, she was certain he was gone. And I said no, no, he was still here, right next to us, complaining just as we were.

My sister and I got a bag of chips. Barbecue. We ate them on the way home, silent save the crunching. We were thinking too many thoughts to speak them aloud.