Settling on the bench, the sun’s lasting heat seeped through the stone, so warm it bordered on hot. I remained seated though. Before me, on the other side of the table, a man with scarred skin and lined eyes sat, gazing at his calloused and cracked hands folded on the weather-pitted rock of the table.

I folded my arms and rested my weight on them, leaning forward slightly. He didn’t meet my eyes, even when I gently spoke.

“Do you have anything to ask me?” The wind was my only answer for a several minutes, small gusts lightly stirring the bright young oak leaves of the single tree beside us. Behind him, the lake glittered, deep verdant green, moving ever so slightly in constant motion. Further back, the mountains, mirroring the ones behind me.

“Why did he have to die?” The question was whispered, so low and croaking that it was hardly audible. Still though, I caught it, and I took a breath, thinking on my words. They came so easy on paper, but now, now they challenged me.

“Would you rather,” I began, trying so very hard to make my voice soft. “That it was you?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Yes.” I smiled, a little sad.

“No James. I don’t mean death. I’m taking about everything else.” A moment of silence, and he raised his eyes to mine. Such pain, such grief in those eyes, and I hated myself then, for the things I did to him, even though I thought I was telling the truth that was life when I put his hardships to paper.

His face, so worn and marred, paled.

“Think of how it pained you to loose him, and all that came after.” I said, so, so gently. He blinked, dark eyes bright with more than sunlight. “Death was a kindness, one I’m sorry I didn’t give you.”

A tear, then a second, rolled down his cheek, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He inhaled a shuddering breath, keeping his hands on his face.

“Why did this have to happen at all?” He asked, his deep voice choked. I pressed my lips together, my own eyes beginning to burn. I tipped my head back, the sun warm on my face even as the wind blew cool.

“Because it had to. Think of what the world looked like Before, all that was so wrong. Now, think of watching that buffalo step over the fence in Colorado, and the broken high lines. The pavement on Old Creek road that’s almost completely gone now. The Mexican wolf you saw run through the mesquite field.”

I closed my eyes and breathed for a minute, listening to his heavy, hitching breaths. A tear ran hot down the side of my face, into my hair. I opened my eyes and faced him. Watched as he held the side of his hand against the corner of his dark brow, obscuring the ragged scar that ran down from his hairline. It was more noticeable than the stitch marks running from the side his mouth, which was mostly hidden by his beard. But I knew, that scar hurt far more.

After awhile of silence, and he had steadied his breathing and his face was mostly dry, he looked at me with bloodshot eyes and blotched red cheeks, expression somber, calm, but still slightly pained. Always pained.

“I understand.” He said, gravelly and rough but resilient. I smiled, extending my right hand and placing it against his face, cradling his jaw and brushing my thumb over the scar where it cut through his eyebrow. The lines besides his eyes and mouth tightened, but he pressed into my touch.

“I know you do, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry you suffered to see a better world, even if it’s what had to happen for things to change. I don’t know if the world will ever look like this for me, it may not for many years. But for you, you’ll grow old, you’ll see the trains run in the distance and the animals at peace, the monochrome of the cities be overtaken with earth, the hum of electricity lost to wind and insect song. You’ll see every thousand star in the sky on clear nights as the coyotes howl, and when you die, you’ll die having left the world far, far better then you came into it. I can only hope my own death will mean as much.”

James closed his eyes, crying once more, and turned his face more fully into my hand, bringing his own up to loosely clasp my wrist. I grit my teeth, my throat tight. Even though it was always my own fault, I hated when he cried like this. I hated to see him in pain, despite always being the cause. Perhaps that made it all the more worse.

“I’m so sorry James.” I whispered, feeling him tremble beneath my fingers. He cast his eyes up to meet mine. His fathomless, shining eyes.

“Is this how you feel?” He asked, raw and open. I smiled without joy, sure my own face reflected the pain in his.

“Yes.” I said, smile fading. I looked at the mountains, in shades of green and blue with gray cliffs at the peaks, the crows wheeling on the air currents and sunset clouds painted in colors of fire that lit the lake up. The tall gold grass swayed, bees flower hopping between the bluebonnets and wild sage, early bats flitting above our heads. I smiled again, this time genuine and kind, and met James’ eyes.

“Not always though.”