Short Story – Thank you for the Memories

“Can we sit down for a bit?” My granddaughter asked, pointing towards a bench. Her small hand in mine swung our arms as we walked along the path I knew so well, that she had yet to discover. 

"Of course.”

She led the way to the bench, pulling me along behind her. I knew everything about this path, every tree, every plant. I knew that bench. I came to visit every week, ran my fingers along the engraving. 

“Can I have a drink?” She asked, and I sat down, digging through the bag I carried with me for her water bottle. She took it from my hands and tipped it up, drinking deeply, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand afterwards. I looked up to where the tops of the trees brushed the sky, aware of my granddaughter turning on the bench and looking around.

“RTB.” She said quietly, and I dragged my gaze down to her. Hearing the initials I knew being spoken aloud felt like a spell had been broken, and yet, at the same time I longed to hear them spoken again. “Who do you think it was?” She looked up at me, and I turned my attention towards the engraving. RTB. Thank you for the memories. 

I knew who it was. I knew better than most. I knew that Robbie was the love of my life the moment I saw him. It was the summer, and heat beat down on my head as I walked through the fields. I heard laughter, and my eyes found the source, a group of boys from my class at school, kicking a ball around. He saw me looking, and held up a hand in greeting. I had blushed at the attention, and at being caught, and rushed home, but I couldn’t get his face out of my head. The splattering of freckles across his pale skin, the sun tanned crinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling. The bright orange curls that had been the object of teasing when we were little, but was quickly forgotten. 

I went back to school after the summer holidays, a year older at 16, to find a flower on my desk, just a daisy, but one that beamed up at me as I sat down. I glanced around the room and saw him staring at me, grinning. I fell into the seat and tucked the flower into my bag before anyone else saw, smiling. 

He started walking me home from school, making conversation. When the summer warmth left, and cool autumn breezes set in, I tried to convince him that I could walk home fine by myself, concerned about him going out of his way in the cold to see me home, but he refused to cease accompanying me. Secretly, I was pleased. 

By the time summer came back around, we were sweethearts, holding hands and stealing kisses when we were by ourselves. He took me out for the day, and we walked along a path with trees either side of it, the birds singing in the sky and among the leaves. I carried a picnic basket, swinging it as I held his hand, smiling in contentment as we walked. He took me to a clearing, one he obviously knew well, and we ate sandwiches and kissed. As afternoon turned to early evening, our kisses escalated, and for the first time, we were wrapped in each other’s arms on the picnic blanket, with no clothing between us. His arms were a cocoon of love, and I never wanted to leave him. 

The day he didn’t turn up for school, I walked alone to his house, missing him in his entirely. I missed his hand in mine, the lilt of his voice as he talked to me, the look on his face when he listened to me talk as if I were saying the most interesting things he had ever heard. I knocked on the door, and when his mother answered, I asked after him. Sick in bed, she said. I was not to come in, lest I too grew ill. I walked home in silence, eagerly awaiting the day he was well enough to return to school, and to walk with me again. 

Three lonely weeks passed of me visiting his house daily, seeing only his mother or older sister at the door, and never stepping foot inside. I never knew I could feel dread before anything bad happened, but there was a pit in my stomach when I walked up to his door one day, and knocked hesitantly on it. No one answered for a few minutes, and I knocked again. His mother opened the door, tears running down her cheeks, and pulled me into a hug as she sobbed. I stood shook still, trying to process what I knew was the truth. My Robbie was gone. 

His funeral was a quiet affair, and I stood by his mother as they laid the coffin in the grave, a handkerchief grasped in the hand that rested against my belly, where I was now certain our child grew. My Robbie was gone, but there was a tiny piece of him, coming to life inside me. Despite my weeks of crying after Robbie left, he did not return. Yet, my child grew, and I vowed to give them enough love for Robbie as well.

“I think it was someone very loved,” I wrapped my arm around my granddaughter, and tucked a bright orange curl behind her ear. Her mother had the same hair, and still, only I knew where it came from. I hadn’t shared Robbie with anyone, but had kept his memory to myself all these years. But, the bench that I had put here, to keep his memory alive was not doing that. No one knew who RTB was, only that it was a person who was no longer here. It had been long enough. 

“His name was Robert Thomas Brown.” I told her, and she looked up at me, the freckles across her nose so much like his. “And he was your grandfather.”

And done!

Yes, it's kind of sad – I know, I know.

The inspiration for this came entirely from going on a walk and coming across a bench with an inscription that had three initials, and then said 'thank you for the memory'. My writer brain instantly came up with this story idea when I started to wonder who they had been, and who had dedicated the bench to them.

ALSO – I just realised I named this after a Fall Out Boy song when I titled the post... it's nothing to do with them, I didn't copy the title or anything, it was literally an inscription on a bench!

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!