Every morning, she is there, sitting on the old, rusting clifftop bench, staring out at the ocean. I always greet her as I cycle by, but I don’t think she ever notices me. Today, as I make my way down the track, I am aware that “her bench” is empty. I stop, climb off my bike, and lean it against the back of the bench. I sit down in her spot and for a few minutes, stare at the dancing waves, on her behalf. I am not sure what I’m looking for, but know I don’t see what she sees.
John Holmes likes to write and cycle but avoids doing the two at the same time.