Parked on the narrow walking path, an old jeep, its black hood
peeling, the shine long gone, an elderly couple its occupants,
she having supported him the short distance to the bench
at the edge of the lake in the Bedford Hills Memorial Park.
Sitting next to each other, silent, legs touching, staring out at
the nearly windless water and the lone female duck. Still there,
motionless, after I completed my mile-long circuit, the duck
departed, but on the next pass, they were gone, too. I stopped
to read the plaque bearing the names of the man and woman
for whom the bench was dedicated, friends of the couple perhaps,
possibly donated by them, and here they were on a mild, sunny
Easter Sunday in a hallowed place, remembering a different
passing, maybe each wondering whether next year she would
be the only one here, and me wondering the same about me.
