We had spent the afternoon in a cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques, a spring afternoon just like any other. The monarchs were dancing delicately around us to the beat of the wind’s song. This was always our favorite place to go whenever we could. He loved seeing the sweet, elderly couples walk by, joking how that would be us, but he’d be in a diaper. I loved seeing the families with young children, swinging from their parent’s arms. Today was different, though. Although we were both here, we weren’t. He was wearing my necklace and seemed to be whispering my name between soft cries. I tried to hold him close, to tell him I was right beside him, but he couldn’t feel me. He couldn’t see me, sitting next to him on our bench, wiping his salted eyes.
On A Bench
Porcelain Prose 