Benches and Neighbors

The Bench

Every day, we passed it by. All of us.

On the way to the pool. To walk our dog. To play with our children. In hindsight, we may not have given it the attention it deserved. The respect it had earned. But, it was there for us.

The bench. A child near it. That’s all it really took to get the others outside. Then, the games would start. Volleyball. Soccer. Wiffleball. Football. Simon Says. Mom says come home.

Children jumped from it, mostly. Onto the soft green grass below. Or, rested their skateboards against its side. Admittedly, the adults were the ones who actually sat on it most. Watching their children. Catching up. Getting advice. Did you hear this? Did you hear that?

If you listened, you could hear from the bench. The sounds of a piano, guitar and even a cello. Vacuums and an occasional bark. Did we really appreciate it at all? Did we need to? Come on, it was only a bench.

We avoided it at times. Late at night, a group of strange teenagers wearing all black, cigarettes burning. Turn your head. Did they really have the right to choke it, to chill on our bench?

It stood strong, at first. Made of concrete. It listed and crumbled. Gone. Replaced by a sturdier, more handsome iron. The grass surrounding it exchanged for drought-resistant landscaping.

It unknowingly, perhaps, but willingly participated in our rituals. On Labor Day, the entire street gathered around it, squeezing and crowding with barbeques and lawnchairs. We valued that day. Could the bench have known? It stood steady. Unwavering. 

On the first day of school, every child met at its side, cameras poised. Rows of smiling. Shiny new backpacks ready to face a new year. The bench seemed to grin as well. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten. Six. Four. One by one, the children were gone. High school. College. Paris. New York. Scholarships to accept. Landscapes to view, far away from the comfort of the bench.

This year, one child sat alone. A lone little girl. Enough room for her backpack and lunchbox by her side. She smiles. Click. She doesn’t feel alone. She, after all, is not. She is with her bench. Our bench. Strong and resistant. Ready to face the world.

One bench, under the sycamore shade. 

Appreciated by us all.


That's is...from the juncture of appreciating benches and the communities they help build.