text: I sit on an old park bench. Although the scene is busy, what you’d expect from a train station in the late afternoon, I find my gaze is always drawn to the one static object, the bulletin board. Each day I partake in this little ritual of mine. I clock out of work at 4:43 and enjoy a relaxed pace down to the station. I place my briefcase on the side of the same old bench and take my usual place on the end. The 5 o’clock train comes into the station, normally at 5:02, and empties itself of its passengers before being filled to the brim with a fresh batch. The train blows its horn promptly at 5:09 and departs the station a minute later. The bustle lingers for a while longer, but slowly the station empties and I’m left alone with myself, my bench, and the station staff. I’ve exchanged a few words with the janitor that most often cleans around this time, but failing to find common ground we’ve settled for trading nods. No one notices me sitting at this bench, day after day, watching the same tired scene unfold. No one approaches me and asks why, nor would I want anyone to. Despite the mass of people who populate the station, this ritual is mine and mine alone. Their presence isn’t what keeps me here. The board is in near disrepair. Its wooden frame worn down by time, the cork board retaining only the slightest hint it once held color. A few papers get added to it, a new play’s debut or a lost cat, but underneath the bright colored posters are relics of an age past. The buried pages, once clean white sheets now brown and curling, were each penned by hand. They contain a list of names, a list I read each time I sit at this bench. I start in the top left and let my eyes gradually droop down the board, giving each letter enough time to be fully appreciated. At the end of each word I piece these letters together, forming a name, which I let silently roll off my tongue. Reaching the bottom of the board I start anew at the top of the next list over. Some names are smudged into illegibility, others are covered by more recent notices, but each one has been dutifully read hundreds of times. I alone remember those which can no longer be deciphered. These names once had meaning to a great deal of people. Once the war ended and the soldiers returned home a list went up on a brand new bulletin. It contained the names of those who were missing. Each day the station would crowd with the families of the board and each member would gaze longingly as the train pulled into the station. Over time families had to give up hope. The looks on their faces around town were miserable, but more depressing were the faces of those that stayed. Each time someone threw in the towel, conversation the next day would freeze. The shared hope of the group waned over the years and the list only served as a reminder of that which was lost. Years passed, decades even, and the list was forgotten about. Now, a sole man makes a daily pilgrimage down to a lonely bench and stares, ever-hopeful, at a few scraps of paper loosely tacked onto a decrepit board. His eyes appear to be still to onlookers, but they diligently crawl over each name. He holds strong through this journey, but upon reaching the last letter he cannot help a solitary tear from escaping his eyes. I don’t have much longer to continue my duty, but I cannot abandon it. For those who were lost, for those who were forgotten, and for those who gave up hope, I read the list.