A river of characters flow before his throne: a wood park bench that has rotted over time. To him the bench still feels like home, still feels like the place his dad would sit and toss a stray frisbee back to its keeper, or a piece of bread to a hungry duck. Every Sunday they would come to this very spot. Every Sunday the hot air balloons would too. They had become a huge part of him; when he was younger he used to think those balloons would appear just for him. He thought the world was his, forever waiting for him to take it. It’s amazing how one day you can think everything is yours, then the next have it all swiped away. One particular Sunday, he had especially looked forward to watching the balloons. His father told him to go on ahead to their bench, that he would come by with a special treat from the market a little later. Late Sunday morning faded into late Sunday afternoon. The bench grew hard underneath him; the balloons came and went. His father never showed. So now, he sits and watches smiling faces flood past him.
His face is hard. This is his throne of grief. This is his kingdom of nostalgia.