The Bench

Probably written in 2008.

On the side of the hill was a small wooden bench that overlooked a beautiful little pond.  Many times the bench had held people in its protective arms.  Some days the rains would come and sometimes the sunshine.  The bench continued to stand guard over the little pond and to welcome a child or a couple or an old gentleman.  With each passing season the bench would grow a little more comfortable in its place and a little more scarred in its wood.  A small child would find a rock and scrape along the bench’s length, leaving behind a streak of chipped stain.  A young couple in the blooming stages of love would sit on the bench’s seat and vow to always love one another.  Then they would carve their initials into the bench’s tender wooden back.  The bench didn’t mind so much.  Love was important, the bench knew that.  Now, as years passed, the bench began to grow a little less spry and a little less inviting, but one person continued to come to the bench.  One person still came to her friend and sat on the worn wooden bench, where so many events in her life had taken her.  She had changed since the first time she had come to the bench for comfort.  The bench had noticed the changes in her as she sat on the planks forming the seat.  She had been small the first time she had crawled up onto this special perch to look out over the water with her mother close beside her.  She had had bouncy little pigtails that blew in the breeze.  The ice cream she ate had dripped down onto the wood beneath her and dropped down to the dirt below.  The bench clearly remembered this event because the feeling of the ice cream slipping off of the plank onto the ground had been a new sensation, one never before felt.  Many times after that the feeling would come again, but that first time had been memorable.  She had come many times after that to sit and watch and eat with her mother, but the bench clearly remembered another day many seasons later.  The weather had been cold that day.  She had come with her favorite dog and sat down with such weightiness that the bench sensed something in her was not right.  She sat there trembling as tears poured from her eyes and her feet touched the ground.  A man the bench knew to be her father came and joined her as the sun began to set.  He took her in his arms to comfort her, but he also began to cry.  The memory was almost too much for the bench.  The girl had sobbed and sobbed.  Why was she so sad?  The bench did not know, but as time passed, the girl continued to come alone with her dog.  Her mother no longer came to the park with her.  Her mother no longer bought her ice cream and sat and watched the ducks in the pond.  The bench sensed that the mother had been the cause of all of those tears.  More seasons flew by in the bench’s world, and June again came to the beautiful pond.  The girl, who had grown taller since the crying episode, came to the bench wearing a blue gown and a flat blue hat.  Her father motioned her to sit down on the bench and began to take several pictures of her.  The bench was aware of the feel of the gown across the planks of the seat.  The feeling was another new one.  Something wonderful and delicious and something that made the bench realize change was coming.  This girl was different from the girl with pigtails and ice cream cones.  She was different from the girl that had cried on the soft, worn wood.  A year passed in the life of the bench and the girl had only come a few times to sit and watch and think.  Then one day she came again and sat on the seat marked with initials and scars and dried up messes.  She sat down and so did someone else.  A man sat next to her.  He put his arm behind her across the bench’s seat back.  The girl’s weight shifted as she leaned toward her beau.  The bench was honored that she would bring this special man to sit in the comfort of his arms, his curves.  Many times after that first visit together, the couple returned to sit at the pond on the bench.  Sometimes they brought books and read.  Other times they packed a picnic and ate.  Always they sat on the bench.  One special night they came to the bench and the man did not sit.  He kneeled in front of the bench and much laughter and crying followed that.  The bench felt the man sit and hug his girl.  The bench felt the passage of time in the wood of the seat and the metal of the legs and arms.  The young woman came and seemed to put slightly more pressure onto the wood than she had before.  She seemed to cry some during these visits, but the tears that dripped down to caress the wood were sweet, happy tears.  She would bring her journal and write in it, shifting several times during each visit.  The day the bench felt a little boy climb up onto the wood seat and felt the woman ease down was a special day.  The little boy dribbled ice cream onto the seat, and the woman took a napkin and gently wiped it up.  The little boy knocked a little wooden object against the back of the bench over and over again.  The bench couldn’t find fault with him.  On another visit a little girl crawled up onto the bench and the boy came to sit next to her.  The woman took their picture and sent them to play so she could have the bench to herself.  More events passed as more years passed.  The bench began to feel cracks in the planks of the seat and began to wonder just how long the view of the pond would remain where it was.  The woman came to sit on the bench with yet a different feeling to her posture than the bench could remember.  She didn’t weigh quite as much and she felt a little smaller than she had before.  Her hands began to softly skitter over the wood, feeling each letter and crevice.  A man came to stand next to the bench.  He leaned over the woman and began speaking with her.  She began to shake her head repeatedly, and he came to sit next to her.  The conversation continued.  She still shook her head.  Something that the bench never expected happened after that day.  Three men came to the bench and began to remove the legs of the bench from the ground.  The bench didn’t know what was happening.  The bench felt weightless as the men lifted and shifted and carried the bench to the back of a truck.  The men slid the bench into a dark space and shut the door.  The bench no longer saw the pond or felt the breeze or heard children playing or held someone in the comfort of the seat.  What had happened?  What had happened?  The bench sat in darkness until the door opened and the same three men lifted the bench again.  The bench was carried to a concrete floor where it was placed by the men.  Things the bench had never felt were happening.  The wood was being caressed with brushes and the metal was being swept with cloths.  What could possibly have been happening?

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“My name is Sophie Reynolds.  Some of you are probably wondering who I am and what I’m doing here.  You have every right to wonder, but you may not get answers that will satisfy your curiosity.  I have been a resident of this town since the day I was born.  I’ve been here on this precious planet for very nearly seventy years now.  Such a special place to be.  This park that you are sitting in right now has held many special memories for me over my lifetime.  They are not all happy memories, but they are all very special.  As a young girl, I came here with my mother and had ice cream and fed the ducks in the pond.  As a teenager, I came here and mourned the death of my mother.  As a high school graduate, I came here and had my picture taken in my cap and gown.  As a college student, I came here with my very dear husband before we were married.  As a newlywed, I came here when I was expecting my first child.  As a young mother, I came here with my two little ones and let them play.  As a grandmother, I came with my grandchildren.  As a widow, I came to say goodbye to my beloved.  This park has been a very special part of my life.  One place, in particular, has been a great comfort to me in all the years that I have come here.  The bench at the little pond has been a very real help to me at every stage of my life.  I recently learned that due to weather, age, and use the bench needed to be torn out and replaced.  I was extremely distraught when this news reached me and determined to not let such a catastrophe occur.  My son, whom I love, thinks me crazy for this special ceremony and my determination to preserve this park bench, but I am certainly not going to be waylaid.  You may be wondering why I have donated so much money to the preservation of one very aged park bench.  The reason behind this action is in what I told you at the beginning.  My life has happened on that bench.  The bench and I are old friends.  We have spent hours together in quiet solitude and have shared many emotions.  We have faced storms together and joys together.  I want others to have the same opportunity that I had.  A place to come to for comfort and for solace and for beauty.  A place where the world can only bring joy and peace, not hurt and heartache.  No one here will fault me because I want to continue to give this bench a place here in Sydney and Bernard Grove Park.  A park that I recently purchased and named after my beloved parents.  I want this to be a place that anyone can come to and enjoy.  The bench has been brought back to its former glory while preserving its history.  I would like to dedicate this bench, my friend, to the memory of my dear, late husband, Marshall Reynolds.  Thank you for coming today.  My family and I would like to direct your attention to the other side of the pond where we will be having refreshments and where you will see the new bench we have added.  Thank you all again for taking time today to join us for this special celebration.”

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It sure does feel good to be here at the pond again.  I feel like a new bench, yet I don’t.  Thank you, my friend!