A plague on a bench is not an irregularity. There are droves of them and there are certain commonalities among them. A message from the living to the lost. A bible verse or a name followed by preferable adjectives. Some have plumes and artistic pictures to accent the words of respect. Often enough, it is a dedication, a poem, or a date; all being easy enough to decipher. A scripted message that is not so easy to decipher, is odd.

There is just such a plaque that is rooted into the bench that sits between two aspen trees and one fat ash tree. It is centered on top of the bench which was cut out of concrete to look like three large rocks; all flat and arranged with the two small blocks on the side and the long seat on top. The italic letters fit in the middle part of the slate rectangle precisely, nothing decorative, no bravado. It is important to note that the words are the only part that is odd. Other than that, the plaque is handsome.

Gus goes to this place, thinking of Penny. She looked like Violet on “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Everyone couldn’t help but look at her, she held a light inside her hair, the ends appeared lit from within the way dust dances in the sunlight. And since Gus resembles Jimmy Stewart himself, tall and lean, (if a bit wrinkled and gray from age), he liked to imagine that George picked Violet and never ended up with Donna Reed.

After lowering himself on the bench with a grunt, his seat brushing the plaque below him, Gus reviews the message, wondering what someone else might decipher from it. Idiosyncratic, reflected Gus. Confusing. Well, putting the words down weren’t intended to be understood by everyone. Just her, and maybe more for himself at that.

Gus coughed from the cold weather; it was the certain degree of fall where the air just sort of smells like campfire. Somehow you can still smell the smoke in your hair and your clothes later. A greek joint that was visible aways from him was getting a fair share of traffic. The smoke was battling against wafts of spicy falafel meat, the smell of yeasty pita bread embraced him, temping him to pick up dinner and head home. Instead, he kept his eyes on the small grassy clearing in front of him. Four or so children; two boys, a toddling baby and a little blonde girl were playing in the leaves. Funny, thought Gus, how children always play together like they know one another. Adults are awkward and nervous when making new friends.

Periodically, the little blonde girl, who was wearing purple Dr. Seuss striped pants kept waving to him. Even though he waved back, she kept waving, as if it had delighted her that he should reciprocate. Before long she brought over an orange five tipped leaf she found on the ground and handed to him. She kept bringing them over to him once he accepted the first, one leaf at a time until he had collected a flaky bouquet in his palms.

Once, when Gus was younger, the kind of young when a drink didn’t come along with a headache and a run didn’t ridicule one’s bones, he had taken a seat on this very bench next to the woman who would one day be his wife.

The memory started seeping over him, like shadows creep out at sunset. It came as it always did; the reason for Gus’s visit to this bench…

“See that?” Penny said eagerly. Gus followed her finger into the ash tree where a couple of white pigeons were squatted next to one another. “They mate for life, you know.”

Gus enjoyed when Penny got this tone, the all-knowing genius that one finds in six-year-olds. So, he didn’t point out that she was wrong. “Pigeons, huh? Never would’ve thought,” he replied instead. He offered her the paper bag that held the caramel popcorn candy they were sharing. 

Penny looked at Gus with exasperation. “They’re not pigeons silly, they’re turtle doves. And its true. They are next to never apart.”

Unlikely, Gus thought. Still, he didn’t argue. 

“Sure its true!” Penny insisted, just as if Gus had spoken. “Like the Sox are never really apart from a win. Since they always play.”

This didn’t seem to make sense to Gus, but he didn’t say so. He privately enjoyed her strange form of logic. “Its the same with wolves and eagles. But turtle doves! They have inspired poets for centuries! Look. See that there?” Penny urged, motioning with her finger to the other bird who had now hopped over to another branch and was nibbling invisible itches inside her wings. “Never really apart. Not really.”

They were silent for a while. Penny fidgeted with her tongue over the gummy spots in her teeth from the caramel candy and Gus watched the pair of birds. It was true, they flew from one place to another, sometimes they were interested in different things, but they always stayed close. There, and never apart from the other no matter how far off one might go. 

“Are you ready yet, Grandpa?” the little blonde girl in the striped purple pants asked. The sun was coming through her hair.

“Almost,” said Gus.

“You’re never ready,” the little blonde girl pointed out.

Gus took a long look around, brushed the plaque with his fingertips, and lay upon it the bouquet of leaves.

“Not Really, Turtle Dove,” Gus said, reading the words from the plaque aloud.