The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

It was a breezy, sunny day that reminded me of my childhood. There was a certain smell in the air that, when I breathed in deeply enough, effortlessly transported me to a certain nostalgic feeling of youth. It was irresistable.

There’s a wide path that runs centrally through the south part of the park, the part that seemed to be more civilized and refined than the rest of it. The farther north you got, to the west of the lake, it seemed to get more tangled and twisted. The crushed pebble paths that wound lazily through the arboretum seemed almost as if they were part of nature itself. And beyond that, where the hill rises to the north of the lake, the paths turn to trails and nature becomes herself again, free of man’s refinements.

At the top of the hill, where it becomes a tiny cliff above the water, perhaps 40 feet or so from the surface, is a wide space beneath an old oak tree with leafy branches that form a natural canopy. There are a few old picnic tables there. This was my destination. I figured after I wandered about the park for some time, I could settle there, look over the waters, pretend I didn’t hear the noise of traffic nearby, and write a bit.

If you walk up the wide path, there are occasional benches on either side, spaced so that you wouldn’t be staring at someone across from you. On your right would be a row of small hedges that hug a tall black iron fence erected to protect us from the deep waters of the wide canal. To your left are tall trees and a wide green that gently slopes down from the north, where people lay about, play Frisbee, taunt happy dogs, and participate in other acceptable park activities. I had walked along this path, doing my best not to be accosted by people on Rollerblades, until I mounted the low, wide steps that led up to the area directly before the stone bridge that spans the canal. Here, another path leads away from the bridge, across the green, to a parking lot barely visible through the trees. If I were to turn right, I’d cross the bridge, which is not what I intended to do. Directly ahead, after descending a like set of steps, the path narrowed and began to meander a bit. This is what I was looking for.

I walked a bit farther before I noticed a rather large group of ducks that had wandered quite far away from the lake’s edge. They were milling about on the path, apparently somewhat agitated. Perhaps they knew they were lost. An older woman was unsuccessfully trying to herd them back toward the lake to the north but it was obviously fruitless. Somewhat amused by this and feeling a little uncomfortable in my new shoes, I decided to sit down on one of the benches to watch this anonymous duck lover work.

An old man was sitting on the only bench nearby. After the bridge, the benches were scarce and most faced the field, hill, and forest rather than the waterfront; that is, until one gets to the edge of the trees where there are then no benches whatsoever. He was smartly dressed in a dark green button-up and a gray sleeveless sweater which managed to compliment. His pants were tightly checked and brown. A battered hat sat on his head. The entire posture of his body told me that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, that his aged face had seen more hardships than I will ever see, and his eyes and his smile told me that he didn’t care anymore; he had found his peace and that was all that mattered.

‘I don’t think it’s going to work, do you?’ He said after a few moments.

Not really feeling terribly socialble, I simply nodded and grunted in agreement.

After a few more moments, he turned to me, placing his left arm on the back of the bench and said, ‘You know, you remind me of my son.’

‘Really,’ I replied. I didn’t mean to sound rude but I think I did anyway. It didn’t seem to bother to old man very much.

‘Yes, sir, you do,’ he said, and smiled. There was something warm in his smile, like that of a content grandfather. But there also seemed to be something a bit mischievous in his smile, something malicious perhaps. I wasn’t certain, but it put me on guard.

‘Yes,’ he said again, the sound leaving his lips with no great haste, drifting into the breeze and away.

‘His name is Matthew,’ he said. ‘Now that wasn’t my idea of a name. It wasn’t his mother’s either. She died while having him. It was my mother-in-law’s idea. You know, I’m not certain why I let him have taht name, but for some reason, I just didn’t feel like arguing with her. So Matthew it was.’

Some kids at play in the field across from us turned from sport to argument momentarily. Their voices carried over to us.

‘I wanted to name him Jacob,’ he continued. ‘A nice Jewish name. But Alice’s family… well, I should say, Alice’s mother was a Brooklyn Catholic, if you know what I mean.’ I didn’t. ‘And when Alice passed on, well, that took the wind out of me. I just wasn’t up to boxing her mother over the boy’s name. I suppose it shouldn’t bother me, you know? It’s been… well,’ he chuckled, ‘it’s been a long time.’

I nodded and smiled at him.

‘Matthew was killed in Korea. The Korean War, you know. Do you know much about the Korean War?’

I admitted that I didn’t.

‘Neither do I,’ he said with emphasis. ‘In fact, I pretended that it wasn’t happening, and I pretended that Matthew didn’t enlist. I didn’t want him to fight. I didn’t want him to go over there. I needed him here. Well, I needed him home. But he had a giving streak in him the size of the ocean and a patriotism too. And when Matthew went away to the army, I didn’t say anything to him. I was being stubborn. I was being a stubborn, stupid old man. I was being the only way a Jewish father who was being disobeyed could be.

‘It wasn’t no more than ten months or so before I got a letter from the army saying that Matthew had been killed in a helicopter crash. They never said what exactly happened. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I guess none of it really matters.

‘It just bothers me every time I go to his grave and see the name “Matthew” on it. Nothing wrong with “Matthew”. Nothing at all. But, sometimes, I wonder if that’s really him in there. Buried. Sometimes I think to myself, “You know, Abraham, maybe it’s not him. It doesn’t say ‘Matthew’.”‘ He laughed a little bit. A laughter tinged with nostalgia and bitterness.

Before I knew it, the old man had gotten up and was slowly walking away. I watched him for a moment and I honestly expected him to turn around and offer something more, something perhaps to tie his sudden outburst together and allow it to make sense to me, a complete stranger.

But he didn’t.