Drawn together

A short story by Isabelle Broom

- Isabelle Broom

The bench had been her mother's idea. Ordered, paid for and installed long before she left them. The plaque fixed upon it was engraved with her name, alongside the words, "Let the beauty here inspire you, as it did me." Gwen relinquished a sigh as she sat down. Her gaze trailed from her scuffed boots to the rough pathway, cracked concrete with veins of tufty grass, a bank of thistles that tapered down to the water, the murk of the river beyond. The sky was heron grey, clouds dip-dyed with the threat of rain, though the trees burned bright with autumn hues.

Movement caught her eye. Gwen glanced up, watching as a man made his way from the bridge to the bench opposite. He was wrapped up against the cold in a heavy overcoat, bright scarf and woollen hat, though his hands were bare. She had chosen a spot in the centre of her seat, yet he scooted to one end of his, withdrawing a notebook and pen from his pocket as he did so.

A breeze swept in and she shivered. A supermarket carrier bag sailed past on the tide. People continued to tell Gwen that it would get easier with time. She had heard every platitude and dismissed them all. The truth was that she did not want to move on. What she wanted was to stay exactly where she was, holding tight to her mother's memory, not to wallow but to wait. Grief was not a smudge that could be erased, it was a hard, dark line and it cut through everything. She blinked, eyes dry where her stare had adhered itself to nothingness. There was a tote bag pooled in her lap and she reached inside, took out the items her mother had carefully wrapped before secreting them away to be found after her passing. A sketch book, charcoals, pastels in a cardboard sheath. No explanation, though the message was clear enough.