To See A Fish—Wyatt Dalton

An elderly man walked alone down a shaded path lined with tall birch trees. It was only one of many such paths in this park, but this one was her favorite. He missed her. He always missed her, of course, but here, on her path, he missed her even more—if that was possible. He would have to visit her tomorrow though, it was getting late, and she was all the way on the other side of town.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves over his head as he walked. His breath caught in his throat when he looked up: it was early autumn, when the leaves were just starting to change color. Her favorite time of the year. She loved the colors of autumn on these old birches. He found himself wishing once again that she could be here to see. Although, I suppose she is here, in a way, in my memories, he thought as his eyes began to mist.

He laughed to himself. Had he planned this? No he couldn’t have: he came to the park on impulse. Really, he had no idea why he came so late. One moment he was in his home, comfortably watching Tv, the next he felt drawn, somehow back here—back to a place he hadn’t visited in such a long time.

As he rounded a bend, he suddenly found himself staring at her bench—the one that sat three feet away from the edge of the pond. Her quiet escape—that’s what she had called it. “A place for her to be alone with her heart.” Yet despite all her talk of being alone, she never came here unless he was by her side.

Not knowing why, he sat down and looked out over the water. Maybe it was because he felt something of her here? He quietly laughed at that thought. A nice idea, though, I don’t know how true that is, now. No, it was most likely just the countless memories they had made here. He sighed as those times came flooding back to him.

She used to swear that fish jump out of this pond. She always said they came out just as the sun was about to set. With the last light of day they would jump out of the water “all silver and golden sparkles.” He had never seen these fish. Even though he was sitting right beside her whenever she claimed to see something—she always did have a better imagination than me.

He sat on that bench for a few minutes longer, watching the sun slowly set, letting memory after memory fill his head until he felt like he really could, somehow, feel her there. Then suddenly, as the last light from the setting sun swept across the tiny pond, a fish jumped out of the still waters. It was silver, and its scales sparkled just the way she had said.

He smiled and let a single tear roll down his cheek.