Benches | Mashton AU |

11. Picture Frame

"Here's your soup, Grandpa," Mikayla smiles as she walks into my room with a bowl of steamimg soup, handing it to me as I sit up in my bed, "Homemade. Well. I microwaved a ready made, but its the thought that counts,"

I chuckle but it soons turn into a cough and I sit forward as Mikayla rubs my back as if I'm a child. I finally stop coughing and lie back, smiling sadly at Mikayla as she looks at me with a sympathetic and worried look.

A young man pops his head around the door, "Are- are you not opening the shop today?"

I shake my head slowly, "I don't feel up to it. Could you?" he looks hesitant, so I add, "Mikayla can look after me," She smiles at him, so he nods and disappears.

"Who was that man?" I ask Mikayla quietly.

"Do- do you not remember?"

"I'm very old, and have a very serious condition. I've forgotten some things and people, but you haven't. And he was in my apartment, so I must have known who he was once,"

She nods, "He's my older brother, George. He's normally away at college but he came back to visit for a while," She thought for a while, "There's a picture of him when he was a kid, with me as a baby. It's in a metal frame, on the shelf in the living room,"

"Oh. He's so small in that picture, both of you are" I sighed, "It must've been nice to watch you grow up. I wish I remembered it more"

Mikayla smiled sadly, her eyes glazing over with tears she wouldn't let fall as she whispered, "Why- why don't you tell me about what you do remember?"

So I smile and tell her about the silver frame, even if I don't remember the boy in the picture.

January 18th 2026

44 years and 119 days ago

2 days after

I stare at the metal frame in my shaking hands, and the picture in it. My tears fall on the photograph of Michael, sitting on the bench as the sunlight makes his eyes shine, in a way that's not quite captured by the camera. My hand trembles as I gaze at the picture that was taken two weeks ago. Two fúcking weeks ago.

My breathing becomes uneven as I curl into a ball on the couch, screaming into the cushions. The tears now stream down my face as I rock back and forth, my loud sobs shaking my body.

I cry until no more tears will come, and then I whimper, hugging my knees to my chest, burying my face in the soft fabric of his now tear stained jumper, breathing in his smell, already fading.

But he's not fading from my memory. He never will. How could I not remember every single detail of his face, the exact pitch of his laugh, his smell, the feeling of his arms around me. Those things I can't exactly put into words, but I'll never forget.

Eventually, I uncurl myself from my spot and stare at the almost blank piece of paper that made everything so much more real. At the top, written in my neat writing and underlined is the title 'Funeral Speech'.