Lunch Bench #2
There’s a bench near the Met where, when the weather allows, I have my lunch most Tuesdays. The black paint is chipped on the swirly metal arms, worn down and faded on the seat—a project so far down the city’s to-do list, I might as well pack a can of pink paint in my sack lunch and make my bench a personal art project.
I am always surprisingly lucky to find my bench empty at the exact time I am able to take my break. Today was no exception. But as I sat down and pulled my sandwich out of my navy blue lunchbox, I realized that lying to my right was a single red, rain-soaked rose. A simple, almost clichéd kind of rose you imagine has been bought from a street vendor.
After the early morning rain, the sun had come out. By the time I reached it the bench was dry from its rays; the soggy rose a stark contrast to the enjoyable fall weather. I had left my latest library novel at the office, content to people-watch today. Now here I was, stories already waiting for me on my lunch bench.
It is one of the worst days of her life. She knows it before she opens her eyes. It is not supposed to be this way. Mothers aren’t supposed to grieve their children, the old aren’t meant to outlive their babies.
Her singing group has sent a dozen roses. It’s the smallest arrangement in the church, from big-hearted women living on small retirements. She’s read the notes on all the flowers the previous night, most repeating the phrases we’ve all learned to say, for there is no newness in death. This morning, after she greets the pastor, she walks to the roses, plucking the card from its plastic holder and tucking it into her pocket. Their words were right and she wants them close.
The service was nice. That’s what she’ll tell the well-meaning people who ask in the coming weeks. What the other volunteers at the food pantry will say to her when she returns to the cramped kitchen where she fills boxes every Tuesday and Thursday. The service was nice. Because you can’t say the service was a living fucking hell you want erased from your memory forever.
At the light meal after the nice service, she crams her left hand deep into her coat pocket and grasps at the note, trying to find the grace to be nice. Nice to these people she is supposed to know but can’t remember. Nice to his business colleagues she knows are schmucks that he never really liked. Nice to people who are trying so hard and being so stupid.
The women she sings with each Friday at 2 p.m. are there too. They sit quietly at one of the round tables covered with cheap white tablecloths, the ones with the plastic pleats. Across the room they smile at her with tender eyes, and they do not for one moment ask her to be nice.
People in suits are asking her what she wants to do with all the flowers. There’s no graveside to take them too—although she always felt that was a waste too. She tries to push past the exhaustion. Graciously, her niece takes charge saying she will deliver all the arrangements to nursing homes and the like. She barely nods her head yes, pulling one rose from the simple arrangement.
The florist has taken the thorns off, making the rose easy to carry back to the fluorescent-lit fellowship hall. Such a strange thing, cut flowers—beauty actively dying. There are a few remaining people to greet so she walks across the room, so she puts the rose beside her oversized purse. For a second she considers asking someone to find a cup of water for it—that’s what she would usually do—but usual is gone. There is no bringing the dying back to life.
Her family frets about her going home to her small apartment alone. They beg her to let them at least call a car for her. She’s bothered them for years by continuing to ride the subway. She’s left many a family gathering with a satisfied smirk on her face as she headed towards the nearest station.
She won’t stop living. That’s the promise she made herself on the day of her retirement, thirty-five years of teaching school. This was a new life, not an end to an old. But today, she wonders if one man’s death can end her life. She wonders if the brilliant flowers in the nice service are the last life she’ll ever see.
She walks towards the nearest station. She’s tucked the bulletin from the service into her bag, even as she thinks that this is just one more paper she will have to go through and inevitably get rid of. And on top of three lipsticks, too many used tissues, a wallet bulging with coupons and a whole mound of other things, she’s sure she might need someday, she lays the rose.
It’s early in the day. Her Mondays are always unstructured now—no volunteering or hobby groups. She likes starting her week slow. She reads the paper while sipping coffee. Laughs at how cliche she has become. This is the earliest she’s been out on a Monday in forever. Arnie, her cat, was startled this morning as she exited the warm bed at the sound of her alarm clock. It felt like a school day—a class, a grief, with mandatory attendance.
If she was out she might as well be out, she thinks. Her black slacks are plenty comfortable and she long ago stopped wearing unsensible heels. She ticks through a list in her head. She stops into CVS to pick up her iron supplement and cereal. She usually grocery shops on Friday before her singing group, but last Friday she was shopping for urns. She realizes that at the bottom of her bag is an overdue library book—no wonder the bag has been so heavy. She slips the book into the return slot pausing to contemplate getting something new, but she knows her brain won’t be ready for reading this week, maybe next, maybe ever. Books bring things to life. No words can raise him.
Her body is cavernous, scooped out. She thinks she may never rest again. She buys an egg salad sandwich, eats two bites and throws it in the bin. She can’t go home. Home is usual. Nothing can be usual anymore. The wind has picked up a little. She buttons her coat, note still secured deep in her left pocket. She’s wandering now, unmoored from any errands or purpose.
Her feet are tired. The bench catches her hard plop, lacking the grace she once had. She doesn't know how long she stares straight ahead, few people seem to notice her.
It’s not that they aren’t nice. They’re just living.
Things have gone gray and she’s not even sure she wants the color back. She notices her ragged breath, shaking herself out of her stupor. Still quite mindlessly she pulls the rose out of the misshapen bag in her lap. It’s just as colorless as she is. She thinks of the women who sent her this rose and she knows that if anything will make her see life again it will be them.
The clouds are swirling but she’s been here long enough to know they aren’t ready to rain. Looking at his face printed in low-quality black and white—the name she gave him sixty-three years ago underneath in script font—she knows he would tell her to throw away this absurd effort to memorialize him. “Mom, please, for the love of God, stop bringing home things we need to go through. Put it in the recycling bin right now.”
There’s a blue bin across the way. She carelessly leaves her bag on the bench as she makes a beeline for the container. It is the first thing she’s done that feels like it actually honors him, her sweet boy.
She can go home now.
She quickly gathers her bag, thinking through which train will get her home the fastest. Arnie will be ready for the fancy wet food she gave in to feeding him every night, even though it was supposed to be a special treat. She glances at the rose, grabs at the note in her pocket. She has what she needs. The rose will stay put. Her home can hold no more death.