It’s not as I remember it, but I know that it’s here. The trees in the distance are more towering still, and there are bushes where once there were none, but this is the place.

I had taken the old and dusty box from the shelf and opened it carefully, for there was where my most precious memories resided. I removed the contents one at a time, placing the shoes on the floor and the dress on a hanger. The hat, I was pleased to find, was in good order and required little attention.

My memory opened along with the box, and I ran my hands with delight across the sheer fabric of the stockings, and for the first time in many years, joy filled my heart.

The clothes smelt musty and would require several days of airing before I can wear them, but there was no time for that; they would simply have to do.

The bench was just where it should be, but the thin brass plaque that had cost me a fortune to have placed there was missing, as were the holes for the screws. Perhaps it wasn’t the same bench after all. Maybe it was gazing quizzically at me from across the way with that amused expression that was so typical of Bill.

The Bandstand has gone too. It had rotted away when the band didn’t come anymore, leaving the concrete base as its lonely memorial; and, after a while, that too was gone. There is grass there now, but if you stand on the bench, you can see the imprint of where it once stood. I do this, but I can’t see it. Perhaps I need new specs. The optician says that I do. I sit back down.

The people pass by like the ghosts of a dream. I can see the bandstand as clear as day; there are so many people. There are wooden fold-away chairs so people can sit and listen, and a handcart selling ices. The summer sun is warm, and the smell of candy floss fills the air. I can feel Bill’s arm around my waist as he scoops me up, twirling me around and me laughing at the butterflies in my stomach.

We dance to the music, Bill leading me around the bandstand in a whirl, the trees and sky flashing past my eyes as I spin, begging him to stop and wishing it would last forever. People laugh good-naturedly at our antics, and a gentle ripple of applause follows us until we collapse in a heap on the bench.

I dress in the quiet of my room. It has been so long, and yet the clothes fit me perfectly. Bill will be so proud. I remember how he loved me in this dress. My hair is grey now and much thinner than it once was, so I take an extra hatpin and fix the hat just so. Perfect, I want to be beautiful for him.

People pass by as actors in a play, some arm in arm and others ambling alone, taking the pleasant summer air. They could be players in a Hollywood musical, about to burst into song in honour of the day, with the lonely old lady in the old-fashioned clothes as the backdrop.

 Giggling teenagers wrapped in each other’s arms come plunging towards me, thumping heavily upon my bench. Me and Bill. My eyes are shining with joy as I look upon my younger self, and I feel like an imposter, trespassing on their bench. They seem so full of life, so joyous; they have no time for a crazy old lady. They run off into the distance, evaporating as they go.

I can see them coming in their starchy white uniforms. They will have gentle words and sympathetic eyes. They are good girls and Bill would be happy that they’re taking care of me, but they come too soon. I left them a note, you see, telling them where I would be. 

 A terrible accident took Bill later that wonderful day, and I packed away my clothes from that day in the park, determined to capture the moment forever, from the dirt on my shoes to the stains on my dress from that mossy old bench. And so boxed, they had remained until today.

‘The park has gone Mary,’ they say, ‘It’s a memorial now.’

But they’re wrong: The park is here. It’s here in my mind, every single, beautiful detail of it.