James Whitmore, 1987

The plaque says James Whitmore,

beloved father,

and nothing else.

1987.

No other context.

Just a name and a year

bolted to the bench

where I'm sitting now,

waiting for the bus,

reading the thing

like it's suddenly going to explain itself.

James Whitmore was loved.

Enough to bolt his name

to a piece of wood

so that strangers could sit on his memorial

and check their phones,

waiting for public transportation,

not thinking about the fact

that someone's grief

got bolted down here

and is still bolted down here,

decades later,

worn smooth by fingers

that don't belong to anyone he knew.

The brass is warm from the sun.

I move my hand away

like I'm intruding.

Whoever loved him is probably dead too by now,

or old, or not thinking about benches,

and James Whitmore's memorial

is just a place where people sit,

where their jackets wear the finish down,

where birds land and leave their marks,

where time does what it does

to everything that tries to hold still.

The bus comes.

I stand up.

I don't say thank you.

I don't know how.