I glance at my watch. 12:03. I’m running late. Half walking, half running in the rain, navigating the afternoon lunch crowd, dipping and dodging the oversized umbrellas. I turn the corner into the familiar bricked courtyard. The gray stone surface is slippery, and I almost fall as I turn. He’s not here yet…whew. I did not want to miss seeing him again. And I didn’t want to slip and fall. Not in front of him.

The table and the two red chairs are in the far corner of the square, in an area covered by lattice, dense with vines and small white flowers. Sheltered from the drizzle and away from any passers-by.
I take the chair away from the wall, knowing he feels more secure when he can see outward. Sometimes, he gets alarmed at sudden movements and unfamiliar faces. Not scared, really. Alarmed. Uneasy, maybe, but no, not scared. He doesn’t scare easily.

I start to think about what I’ll say to him, what I’m gonna ask him. Rehearsing my lines, I ask him about where he lives now, how that’s going, is he happy, has he made new friends. He was always a man of few words, but what he said mattered. He didn’t use words as decoration. His words mattered.

Much of this imagined conversation is, well, quiet. Me looking at him, his eyes a pale grey, his hair a proud silver mane. Pressure starts to build in my eye sockets, and there’s a tightness in my jawbone. Lump in my throat, teeth clench a little bit. My eyes start to glisten. I’m not going to cry, but I figure if I do, I can say it’s from the rain.

Ah, good idea. I quickly stand up and walk to the center of the courtyard, and look up to the sky. The drizzle softly sprinkles my face. I keep my eyes open so any tears will be camouflaged. I’m not gonna cry, not in front of him. But you never know.

Somebody turns the corner into the courtyard. Real quick, I turn and walk back to my chair, trying to make it seem as if I had just arrived.

As I sit down, I turn to see if it’s him. But it’s not. Looking up into the lattice, the white flowers, now rain-drenched and facing downward, are looking down at me, laughing at me. Pitying me. Mocking me. “Fuck you, flowers. Don’t judge me.”

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the conversation again. This time, he’s asking me about me, my life, how I’ve been. Did he hear about my surgery? Will he ask about my children, my grandchildren?

30 minutes. Where is he? We said we would meet up by the red chairs again, like we’ve planned so many times in the past. There’s so much I want to ask him, to tell him. I need to see him again. I need to hug him again. Now I am gonna cry. Dammit. Don’t cry!

I need to tell him about my children, my grandchildren.

His grandchildren, his great-grandchildren. He’s never met them. I want him to meet them so he can see that his little boy has done good. 

I raised a family, 3 good kids. And they now have their own families, their own kids. I turned out OK, 

Dad. I did good.

Now, my eyes are drenched. I stumble out into the courtyard again. He’s not gonna see my tears. I look up into the rain, into the sky. Past the clouds and into eternity.

“Are you up there, Dad? Can you see me? I love you, Dad.

I’ll be back next Wednesday. Noon. Will you make it next week? Will you try?”

No answer. He was always a man of few words.