Part 4 – The Pain We Carry
Walter groaned as he rolled out of bed the next morning. The sharp jab in his lower spine was a cruel alarm clock, louder than any buzzer. He swung his legs over the side and sat for a moment, letting the ache spread through his back, down his right hip, into his knee like an old map he’d memorized.
He reached for the heating pad on the nightstand — already lukewarm from the timer he’d set the night before. Some men took to fishing or golf when they retired. Walter took to heating pads, stretching routines, and muttering curses at his own vertebrae.
“You’re an orchestra of cracks and pops,” he grumbled to himself, standing slowly, one hand pressed against the small of his back.
It was getting harder to pretend it wasn’t affecting everything.
Just last week, he’d nearly dropped a carton of milk at the grocery store when his shoulder gave out. A woman in line asked if he needed help, and he’d waved her off with that same old pride that didn’t seem to understand age. Or arthritis. Or the absurd price of prescription muscle relaxers without a decent insurance plan.
He hadn’t told anyone. Not the doctor, not the neighbor who still called him “Mr. Reed” like he was carved from granite. And certainly not Eli. The boy didn’t need to see that his new friend was falling apart one disc at a time.
But Benny knew.
That old mutt had a way of watching him — not with pity, but with quiet understanding. Like he recognized the way Walter winced when bending, or the hesitation before kneeling. Benny moved the same way now — slow, deliberate, pausing before every step like he was considering whether it was worth it.
They were mirrors, he and the dog. One limping soul reflecting another.
On Sunday, the cemetery had become more than a memory. It had become a ritual. And Walter had always been a man of rituals.
That week, he packed more thoughtfully: a portable seat cushion for the bench, a soft brush to groom Benny’s coat, and a plastic folder to hold Eli’s growing stack of drawings. The boy had started leaving them on Rose’s bench when they left — small offerings of color and silence.
The fourth visit was colder. Late autumn crept in under Walter’s jacket and settled in his joints. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and pulled a knit cap low over his ears. The trees were bare now, the wind more insistent. Benny walked slower than usual, his hind leg stiff and dragging like a worn tire.
When they reached the bench, Walter sat with a grunt. “Lord, this bench is no good for old spines.”
Eli said nothing but handed him a foam pad. He’d brought it from home — likely his own school cushion. Walter blinked, touched.
“Well I’ll be,” he said, easing onto it. “You think of everything.”
Benny circled twice before settling at Walter’s feet with a groan. Walter reached down, brushing leaves from the dog’s back. The fur was thinner than before, but warm.
“You know,” Walter said softly, “people think pain is something you talk about. But the worst kinds? You carry them quiet.”
He didn’t look at Eli, but he felt the boy listening.
“I used to think the worst pain was losing Rose,” Walter continued, his voice scratchy. “But what really hurts is when you feel like the world’s forgotten you still need someone. That’s a different kind of empty.”
He paused, rubbing his hip.
“You ever feel like that, Eli?”
The boy didn’t answer. But he leaned closer. And that was enough.
Walter smiled. “We’re a good pair, huh? You, me, and Benny. Walking time machines.”
Eli pulled something from his pocket. A photo. Crinkled, black and white — a woman with a kind face standing next to a young boy outside a church. Eli tapped the photo, then tapped his own chest.
Walter understood. “Your mom?”
Eli nodded.
“And she’s…?”
Another nod.
Walter placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder.
“Guess that makes both of us passengers on the same line.”
For a while, they didn’t speak. Benny’s breathing filled the space between them. Walter’s knee throbbed. He shifted, trying to ease the pressure, but the pain flared sharp and sudden — a white-hot line down his thigh.
“Damn leg,” he hissed under his breath.
Benny lifted his head, nuzzling Walter’s calf gently.
“Yeah, yeah,” Walter said. “I’m fine. Old, not broken.”
Eli stood and walked behind the bench. He returned a minute later with a stick — long and sturdy. He handed it to Walter like it was a royal scepter.
Walter laughed. “Now that’s service.”
He took it and leaned on it as he rose. It helped. He wouldn’t admit how much.
As they walked back toward the road, the wind picked up, scattering leaves across the path. Benny paused every few steps, resting. Eli stayed close to him, one hand on the dog’s back, the other clinging to the edge of Walter’s jacket.
Three worn-out souls, navigating a world that moved too fast.
By the time they reached the gate, Walter felt lightheaded. He hadn’t eaten enough that morning. He sat on the hood of his Buick, breathing through the dizziness.
Eli stood nearby, face worried.
“I’m okay,” Walter said. “Just… need a second. You keep an eye on our co-pilot.”
Benny laid his head in Eli’s lap.
Walter stared at them — the boy and the dog.
This wasn’t just a routine anymore. It was something he couldn’t quite name. Not friendship, not family. But something warm and necessary. Like a final route he hadn’t realized he was still riding.
“I’ll see you both next week,” he said when the boy’s aunt arrived to pick him up.
As they pulled away, Walter felt the cold settle in again — not just the wind, but the kind that lived in your bones.
He rubbed his back.
Then, before getting in the car, he looked up at the sky and whispered, “Still saving that seat for you, Rose.”
Continue Reading Part 5 – Wind at His Back