“He comes to visit,” a man’s voice jarred her out of her reverie.
She’s been watching a waterfowl in the sparkling water. It’s been staring back, she felt.
“The bird?” she turned. The speaker was a frail-looking man who still managed a bearing that stated “military.”
“If it is that.”
She glanced at the crane. The oldster sounded neither confused nor joking.
“Tell me,” she rose to make room on the bench.
The man extended a hand to shake. “Smith. US Navy.”
“Marcia,” she returned.
They used to build ships in Milford, he told her. Built the four-masted Albert F. Paul, too. Launched it from the Abbot shipyard in 1917.
“174 footer, she was,” Smith sighed. “I would’ve been onboard, you see, if I hadn’t been injured. Would’ve gone down with my mates when the Germans torpedoed her in 1942.”
“The fallen seamen,” he lifted his chin toward the bird, “they visit me.”
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