The air was warm and sticky. The grey skies looked full; a dark water balloon waiting to explode. The sidewalk stretch along before him, laid with brick and etched with names of people long since gone from this world.

Trees hung over the path, arched together in the center. Branches twisted together like vines, holding on to each other to cover the path. The leaves watching over the history resting in the carvings beneath their shade.

Along he walked, taking in what he saw. He read the names as he went. He didn’t know any of them, but he thought of them dearly. Each conglomeration of letters represented a human being. A soul who had once lived. A spirit that was now missing from earth.

He turned to the left. A new path stretched out in front of him. New names sprawled across the bricks under green leaves. The wind picked up, the storm was coming.

Black benches lined the new path. They were made of metal but not cold to the touch. A man sat on one bench in the middle of the path. He was alone. They were alone.

They man was a tall, wiry figure. His dark black skin looked worn from years of labor. His face was long and strong, worn from troubles and trials. Some overcome, others not. Here he sat.

He sat with a white plastic bag and a bright red umbrella. The umbrella stood out, like the lone piece of color in a black and white image.

The man continued to walk down the path. He read the names in his mind. He wondered what stories each name carried. He wondered how many people missed each name.

He locked eyes with the man on the bench.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello, sir,” he replied.

The balloon popped. Water tore down from the sky like a million missiles. The two men darted under the trees for cover. There they sat, resting in the haven of the branches, watching the dry grass soak up its food around them.

The men were very different from each other. One was black, the other white. One old, the other very young. One without a home after years of being kicked down, the other just moved into his first home.

There they sat, opposites brought together by rain. There they talked. They learned about each other. The two smiled, chatted, related.

“God made all men equal,” the older man said. “The problem is, no one wants to talk anymore. So we don’t know that we are all the same.”

The young man smiled. He liked the thought.

He thought again of the names, the people who had passed from this world. He thought that, someday, both he and the older man would be among those names. He wondered who would miss them. He wondered how this conversation would change things, or if it would at all.

The rain eased away. The young man said he had to go.

The older man smiled. His name would be among the bricks soon. He now had another person who would recognize his name. He knew the next time the young man strolled down the path, he would see the old man’s name, and he would smile. Because he knew the name. He knew the man.

“Thank you for the conversation,” the old man said. “No one wants to talk anymore.”