September Mourn

"My father loved September Morn," Sadako said, her voice almost a whisper. "He only went that day because someone called in sick."

Was she speaking to me?
Twenty-three years is a long time to grieve, to hide her hurting so deep inside.

A tugboat chugged by us. Its foghorn sounded once, twice.

"I didn't know he worked downtown."
What else could I say? We'd only been dating three weeks.
I spied a bent quarter on the asphalt by the binoculars stand.

Sadako took a sheet of white paper from her backpack and held it out for me to read.
Of course. She'd handwritten the lyrics to Neil Diamond's famous song.
Then she folded it with the precision of an origami master into the shape of a glider and launched it out over the Hudson's choppy waters.

It didn't get far but before it dived nose-first into a whitecap, we thrilled as it twisted and turned in the autumn breeze.

"Come on," I said, "the coffee's on me today."
Sadako nodded.
She stood on tiptoe and kissed my cheek.
Someone cheered, and I'm sure I blushed. 
We walked hand-in-hand through Battery Park's perennial gardens and out onto the bustling Peter Minuit Plaza.

Posted also on markmccluretoday.com