"There never seems to be enough time," he said with a sigh.
The sky began turning pink and we sat back, thankful for the day and the quiet.
How long had we been coming here?
Since the days of his father, back before his scruff turned gray, before the ink on his arms had faded.
How many times had we said good night and woken up to the peacocks calling?
Too many to count.
We loved to sit here in the summertime, when you could hear the delighted screams of children down by the river, and the world felt like it was ours, small and soft and open.