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The bench sits there like a monument of the olden days, as though it is waiting for something to come and make it new again. The wood is dull, creaking and unwilling to bend when sat on, but it is still a semi-inviting place, with some shelter because of the trees surrounding it and the low, but sturdy stone wall in a semi-square just behind the bench. Around it, the leaves fall, the air chills, the pond freezes over, and the rest of the world moves on, but the bench waits.
There is no one, now, no matter how inviting the bench is, to rest their weary feet on the scarred wooden table in front of the bench, next to the path. No one passes by, no one willing to give up the safety of the openness of the rest of the pond, and so no one is left to trail their hands along the top, and sides, and along the table in front of the bench. Tiny green patches of lichen, the only green thing around, the only living thing willing to even venture near the bench, grow in sporadic bursts of delicate, flower-like structures, for none come to clean it, or care for it, or even pass by on the path. But the bench waits.
Squealing children can be heard in the distance; birds, cars, rushing water. Mothers tell their children to not venture near the water, for all know how the dangerous currents in the pond can suck swimmers down to the bottom, and never let them break free. Even so, the pond is a lively place, with fish, and plants, and tiny waves rippling out from the center of the pond to the sides, but no one ventures to this side- the side of the bench. The low stone wall surrounding the bench is imposing at times; upon first glance, it scares people away, tells them that they are not welcome in this hallowed place. The wall protects, keeping the animals from destroying the quiet of the shaded area that surrounds the bench, but it also rejects the advances of those without the determination to sit down and take a break on the bench. But the bench waits.
The dedication on the bench stands out sharply against the dull wood. Dirty and stained by the ravages of time, being more than a decade old now, it still shines, brassy and smooth. Its inscription turns it into a memorial, a tomb, but only for those who remember the namesake of the bench. Nothing living, other than the tiny bits of lichen who have made the bench their home, ventures near the bench; even the air is still, the wind not stirring up the leaves or even touching the bench. But the bench waits.
One might feel small near the bench, near this thing that has been waiting for so long, for someone who is never coming back. Though the area around it grows and changes, the bench has remained the same throughout the time from when it was created and placed there, by the pond, to the time when people started to come across it on walks during chilly fall days in the late afternoon near the bench. It has waited there for over a decade, and will continue to wait, until drastic changes in the environment force someone to move the bench, and the low stone wall, and the scarred table that is beside the path. For that day, the bench waits.
It waits for people to sit and rest; to enjoy nature, and the days that pass by all too quickly; to listen to the sounds of the pond and the fish and the children and the cars and the city beyond; to feel the leaves on their face and the wind in their hair, chilling them to the bone but in a way that makes them feel alive; to breathe, and relax, and remember.
It waits for those who named it; those who dedicated it to a dead girl, gone, murdered; for those who knew her, and loved her; for those whose lives she affected, and who wish to affect others; for those who need to remember her, and her life; the way she laughed, and cried, and brightened their lives so much that they dedicated a bench to her. The bench, of course does not know what it waits for, but it continues to be there, a monument, through the years, stagnant in the midst of the changing environment around it.
Life goes on. But the bench waits.
There is no one, now, no matter how inviting the bench is, to rest their weary feet on the scarred wooden table in front of the bench, next to the path. No one passes by, no one willing to give up the safety of the openness of the rest of the pond, and so no one is left to trail their hands along the top, and sides, and along the table in front of the bench. Tiny green patches of lichen, the only green thing around, the only living thing willing to even venture near the bench, grow in sporadic bursts of delicate, flower-like structures, for none come to clean it, or care for it, or even pass by on the path. But the bench waits.
Squealing children can be heard in the distance; birds, cars, rushing water. Mothers tell their children to not venture near the water, for all know how the dangerous currents in the pond can suck swimmers down to the bottom, and never let them break free. Even so, the pond is a lively place, with fish, and plants, and tiny waves rippling out from the center of the pond to the sides, but no one ventures to this side- the side of the bench. The low stone wall surrounding the bench is imposing at times; upon first glance, it scares people away, tells them that they are not welcome in this hallowed place. The wall protects, keeping the animals from destroying the quiet of the shaded area that surrounds the bench, but it also rejects the advances of those without the determination to sit down and take a break on the bench. But the bench waits.
The dedication on the bench stands out sharply against the dull wood. Dirty and stained by the ravages of time, being more than a decade old now, it still shines, brassy and smooth. Its inscription turns it into a memorial, a tomb, but only for those who remember the namesake of the bench. Nothing living, other than the tiny bits of lichen who have made the bench their home, ventures near the bench; even the air is still, the wind not stirring up the leaves or even touching the bench. But the bench waits.
One might feel small near the bench, near this thing that has been waiting for so long, for someone who is never coming back. Though the area around it grows and changes, the bench has remained the same throughout the time from when it was created and placed there, by the pond, to the time when people started to come across it on walks during chilly fall days in the late afternoon near the bench. It has waited there for over a decade, and will continue to wait, until drastic changes in the environment force someone to move the bench, and the low stone wall, and the scarred table that is beside the path. For that day, the bench waits.
It waits for people to sit and rest; to enjoy nature, and the days that pass by all too quickly; to listen to the sounds of the pond and the fish and the children and the cars and the city beyond; to feel the leaves on their face and the wind in their hair, chilling them to the bone but in a way that makes them feel alive; to breathe, and relax, and remember.
It waits for those who named it; those who dedicated it to a dead girl, gone, murdered; for those who knew her, and loved her; for those whose lives she affected, and who wish to affect others; for those who need to remember her, and her life; the way she laughed, and cried, and brightened their lives so much that they dedicated a bench to her. The bench, of course does not know what it waits for, but it continues to be there, a monument, through the years, stagnant in the midst of the changing environment around it.
Life goes on. But the bench waits.
