The Bench
written by: Lois Rose Mayday
A red public bench graces the footpath near my home. Old, unvarnished, but consistently present for passersby to rest. I carry a multitude of memories of this non-living object, one of which being highly significant to me. My then lover and I, holding hands, sinking in the faint but not-so-scary light amidst the darkness, while we spoke of the darkness within us. Confessions were made earlier in the day, promises laid. The bustle of the busy evening didn’t disturb the love we shared through words and silences. Little did we know that these moments would be short-lived. We separated after a couple of months, yet the memories stayed with me, too vivid to let go. I still pass by the bench every day. Initially, I used to imagine the ghost of us still there, holding on to each other and stargazing under the skies. With time and introspection, I realized the bench preserved stories, not just mine but of all who once found comfort sitting on it. The homeless elderly lady who could get some sound sleep after aimlessly loitering around on the streets for food. The college students who patiently waited for their bus to arrive. The employee clad in office formals who smoked to clear his head. To date, the bench, like a wise old man of sorts, carries all the secrets but tells no one. Except for me, who narrates those stories today.
