Born, born again. I stood back, bouncing my heels up and down over the small gap beyond the edge of the curb and before the pavement beneath it, rereading the words etched deep into the fading red of the brick. The parking lot was empty, besides my pickup. The sun did its dance on the tops of the trees, which I had prepared for this time, sporting a trucker hat my brother had given to me some time ago. A lot of time-ago. 

I kneeled down and brushed my hand along the writing, clearing the dirt it had collected from being walked over each day. It had been carved into the center of the brick, almost professionally. It was elegant. The outer edge of each letter was shallower than the center, like a slope, climbing its way up and outward. I checked my watch. Still eight minutes before I had to be inside. I took out the small pad of paper I kept in my jacket pocket, and sketched the words against the blank page, trying my best to emulate the style, although I couldn’t seem to get it right. I checked it again. Two minutes. 

Nine hours. Four times a week, for the past five years. Two breaks a year, one week each. All those hours I spent behind the sink, separated from the flow of humanity by a thin wall and a swinging door. Plates came in with stories smeared across them, and I erased those stories. Glasses were filled with a night of promise, or a celebration, or some sense of solitude. I filled them to the tipping point with water, and some soap, stacking them to dry on the shelf where they once were. Usually. 

On Sundays, I’d set aside one glass for myself. A moment of solitude of my own, I guess. When all the others had gone, and the doors were closed for the night, I’d slide the stepstool down to the far end of the bar and pull down a blended whiskey, the same blend my brother used to sneak from the wicker cabinet when our parents argued a little too loud. The same that I would pretend not to notice had gone missing the night he left. The same I bought for myself three years after he had passed, and put here on the shelf at the bar.

You learn a lot about somebody from the way they act when they are alone, or at least when they feel alone. How they twiddle with their fingers, or avoid making eyes with those sitting next to them. Or even how their smile fades when someone walks the other way. I don’t feel like I learn very much about myself when I'm alone though. 

“Avoid introspection,” Ollie had said to me, on the drive home from school. “Nothing good comes from thinking about yourself.”

And I believed him. I always had. He was four years older than me, which to a kid meant he knew everything about the world one could know. 

Today wasn’t Sunday. It wasn’t time for the blended whiskey, although I felt I needed it. I checked my watch. Twenty-four minutes until closing. I looked again at my notebook, which was sitting on the counter across from the sink. Born, born again. I read it back in my head, this time in my own voice, as it was written in my own scruffy handwriting. I let the questions flow from my mind, whereas before I had stifled them. Who had left it here? Was it a religious thing? Born again?

The door to the dining room swung open. In came Karah, and with her a pile of dishes. She flashed me a half-assed smile, one that said, I'm ready to go home now. I try to be slow and methodical with my work. I like the connections that the empty plates bring me, those who were brought together by this meal, by these sets of cutlery. Those who shared a hearty laugh or a touching story. I take time on the remedial things, because soon the ordinary passes and I will lose the luxury of taking my time.

“Hey,” Karah said, poking her head through the door. “I’m gonna head home, if you could lock up? Everyone's out of here already. Keys are on the counter.” She flashed the same smile as before, this one with a little bit more effort.  

I nodded, trying to cast a similar smile back. Before I could say anything, she had already left. I plugged my headphones into my MP3 player and filled the sink to the brim with warm water.

A few days after Ollie turned 18, he left during the middle of the night. He took his car and drove an hour and a half east to a rural farming town situated between two rivers called Deltaville. Four years later, after Ollie had passed away, I too left home, looking for remnants of him in a town I knew nothing about. Though, I didn’t have a car, so I walked. And did a bit of hitchhiking. I found work at the diner, and figured I could talk around to some of the regulars to see if they had heard anything about Ollie. Nobody did. 

I placed the last of the glasses on the shelf, and checked my watch again. 31 minutes since we had closed. The music usually makes me lose track of time, though I don’t really mind it. I cut the lights off, and stood for a minute in the middle of the dining room, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The silence filled the room, corner to corner, floor to ceiling. The shadows danced through the blinds of the front windows as a truck drove past. I felt the weight of the notebook in my jacket pocket, and the weight of the watch on my wrist. The heater behind the counter cut on, humming gently. My mind wandered. I thought about Ollie. And that tomorrow was Sunday. I thought about the words on the brick just outside. I was born. I left. I came here, somewhere new. To be someone new. I was born again. 

I drove home unhurriedly. Two right turns and one left, to a driveway of gravel and a squeaky screen door. Bread rising in the oven from the morning, and the bathroom light left on. The night faded rather quickly, and I had gotten home much later than anticipated. My sleep was shallow, and before I knew it the horizon was warm once again. 

On the way to and from the diner is a church. It sits on the edge of town, but towers over just about everything. The regulars at the diner always called it tall and mighty, with its brick base and pointed steeple, compared to the lowly houses of Deltaville. It boasted events year round in its large parking lot, which was empty as I passed it this early in the morning. I’ve only ever been one time. I came after mass one Sunday, and sat in my car, contemplating asking one of the pastors about Ollie, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted an answer to that question, or if I was even ready for one. 

I remember the night that he had left as though it just happened. I was young, but old enough to know what was happening between our parents. Ollie left me a note, telling me he had to go, telling me he hoped I understood. I wish he had taken me with him. I came here probably for the same reasons he did. To start anew. To get away. 

I parked at the side of the diner, and again checked the bricks out front to see if anything had changed. There lay the brick, its engraving unscathed. Born, born again, I read, for what felt like the thousandth time. But this time, for whatever reason, I read it in what I could remember of Ollie’s voice. I checked my watch. Four minutes until opening. I unlocked the doors, flicked on the sign, and headed into the back to begin prepping for the day. The diner was much less quiet during the morning. Although, I enjoyed the push and pull, the quiet evenings and the busy mornings. 

The dishes came, and with them, the remnants of those who had enjoyed their meals, or those who had a drink at the bar by lunch. Each plate came in with such character, but all came out the same, lined up on the shelf after it had been cleaned. 

“Happy Sunday,” said Karah, coming through the door with a bin of more dishes. She wore an oversized blue sweater, with the ends of the sleeves folded up, and what looked like a thousand silver necklaces. Her hair was a light brown, and fell over her shoulders messily. A good type of mess. I wondered if she knew anything about the brick just outside. I wonder if she knew anything about Ollie that she kept from me. 

“Thanks,” I replied, catching her eyes for a few moments. She set the dishes down and began taking them out one at a time, placing them in the warm water. I felt her presence next to me, her warmth, her smell filling the space. We stood there next to each other, washing dishes in silence. I was unsure as to whether I should say something, unsure whether I should try to make conversation. I decided it would be better to continue without talking. Though, I wished she would say something. I saw my reflection in the plate beneath me, my hair overgrown and unkept, one too many days since my last shave. 

Karah had been the one who hired me. It wasn’t her diner, but she had a lot of say in the things that went on around here. There wasn’t much of an interview, rather I told her how I had come to Deltaville, how I had nothing. How I had lost everything. She had this way about her, that she knew what was going on before even being told. She was only a few years older than I was, but she was an old soul at heart. She was the only person I had shared the real details about my brother with. About him leaving. Coming here. Passing. Before she went back out to the dining room, she took the bottle of blended whiskey and a single glass, placing it on the counter next to me. 

My shift was often broken in two, because Karah wanted help for the morning rush and for closing, so the middle of the days I’d spend elsewhere, before coming back. As the evening wound down, most of the people began shuffling out together, and I started working on cleaning and closing up shop. I took the bottle and the glass and stepped out back. The diner had an obscure view of the river in the distance, blocked by just about everything in between. But it was better than looking out at the road. For the first time, I hesitated to pour the glass, I stood there with it shaking in my hand. My clothing felt tight on my back, and I began to sweat. It felt as if there wasn’t any air in my lungs, no matter how hard I breathed. My mind was on Ollie, and I felt that something was different this time. I had to change something. 

There was no funeral, at least that I know of. I’m not sure who Ollie knew here, or why he had even come this way. All I got was a letter in the mail from the church. Maybe he wanted to see the water, like me. The way it was quiet and steady in the morning. The way it would crash against the rocks during a rough storm. Maybe at some point he too stood behind the restaurant and looked into the distance, watching the water flow downstream. Maybe Deltaville was just the closest place that was away from home. Maybe it was as far as he knew. Part of me knew that Ollie was buried out behind the church. Part of me never wanted to find out. 

I set the whiskey bottle and the glass carefully in my passenger seat, and wrapped my jacket around them for good measure. I drove my usual drive home, but instead of taking the first right, I took a left, into the church parking lot. It was empty, and the sun began setting out beyond the steeple. On the left side was a clearing, with a gravel path leading into the woods. I stepped out of my car, taking the whiskey and the glass, leaving them both wrapped in my jacket, and began walking. 

The woods stirred with a swirling wind, one that brought the fallen leaves up, and placed them delicately back down somewhere new. The brisk air of the evening cut against my cheeks. The trees swayed in a rhythm, dancing with the song of the wind. I took the path slowly, as I do with everything. It broke off into a clearing, a field of tall grass. Gravestones were scattered across the land, with seemingly no pattern. A cobblestone path ran through the center of the cemetery, featuring two benches, wood rotting, and a stone statue of the Virgin Mary. 

I stepped between each stone carefully, a knot building deep within my stomach. I knew that Ollie was here, I could feel it in my soul. I just didn’t know if I was ready to find him. I made it to the middle, sitting on one of the benches. Out came the thoughts, pouring like the whisky into the glass. I let them flow. I thought about the time I had here, the time I had with Ollie. Those mornings that he’d take me to school. Those nights where he’d sneak the whiskey. Those who came and went from the diner, who left a shell of someone they once were. Whether Ollie felt as though coming to Deltaville had made him a shell of who he once was. How every event could change someone. How quickly it could all be gone. How long it all would take. I poured another glass. 

The sun was gone now, dipping far beneath the horizon, leaving me under the moonlight and the shadow’s it casted. I was unsure of the time. I had left my watch in the car. The whiskey was nearly gone now, for better or for worse. 

Ollie Lancaster. Across from the bench was his stone. In deep, delicate carving, his name shone across the top. And beneath it, in smaller text, it read Born, born again. I stood up and kneeled down into the grass, damp with dew, across from the headstone. My stomach felt as though it was empty, a cavern, in which all of my thoughts and feelings were freefalling to the bottom. I began to weep. 

After a while, I left the whiskey and the glass leaned up against his grave, and made my way back to my pickup. I started my way home, but took a different path. The long way back.

In the morning, I sat on the steps while I tied my shoes and watched the sun, doing its familiar dance over the tops of the trees.