It was that time of year. I always had to return to the bench, partly to pay my respects, but mostly just to remember. I couldn’t believe that six years had passed already; the days are long, but the years are short. I took great interest in watching the sunset as often as I could; it seemed to be the only thing that mattered. The great flaming ball in the sky, gently fading into obscurity. It looked huge every day this week, and pinker than usual.
I sank further back into the bench; I could feel the metal plaque and its screws digging into my shirt. I didn’t have to read it; I could recite it all- his name, the dates, and the verse- but I still did each time I visited. I had been sitting for about fifteen minutes, flicking my eyes between the sunset and the moon that loomed higher in the sky and growing in its brightness. I heard footsteps approaching; I slowly turned around to see an old man walking towards me. We offered each other a polite smile, but nothing more; that’s usually how those interactions start and end.
“Evening.” He said. I could tell he was out of breath.
“Good evening,” I replied.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” He asked. It wasn’t what I expected him to say, but I didn’t mind too much.
“Certainly.” I slid over to the other side of the bench to make room for him. I figured that he would only want to catch his breath, maybe watch the sunset, and then move on.
We sat in that uncomfortable silence for a moment, for about half a minute. I watched the sun; it would soon be gone. I only glanced briefly at the man; he wore a grey knitted flat cap and a long black overcoat. His eyes were shrunken and his face wrinkled, but he offered a constant smile towards the sun.
“Pleasant isn’t it.” He turned to me, and I nodded. He nodded too. I thought that we would shrink back into that silence, and we did for a moment, but he soon continued. “I like to come here to remember my wife. This was the field that we met.”
“Really?” I asked. I usually wasn’t in the mood to talk, but tonight was different; his presence felt warmer than any other stranger I had met.
“Really.” He gave a slight laugh and leaned closer to me, slowly he extended his arm to the far side of the field; he pointed straight into the bushes. At first, I didn’t understand; had he met her in the bushes? But I noticed a bench buried beneath the leaves; it was only just visible.
“Oh,” I said quietly.
“It’s a shame I can’t get there anymore, too overgrown for me.” He chuckled more clearly this time, but his eyes fell to the ground. He took off his cap and wiped a tear beneath his eye.
“I’m sorry.” I was unsure of what else to say.
He nodded. “At least I can still see it, and at least it’s still there. That’s what matters.”
We sat in a comfortable silence now. The sun set, and the field grew a cold breeze that ran through the grass. I bid the man a good night; we set off in opposite directions. I looked deeply into the bushes as I passed, at his bench, and a smile struck my face.
The following evening, I returned. I had been waiting for around half an hour until I saw the old man approaching. His face lit up at once. He walked over to me and looked as though he was going to cry. I was sitting on his bench.
“Thank you.” He sobbed; I felt a few tears on the back of my shirt. “You did this for me?”
I nodded, but I don’t think he saw; he stared only at the bench, admiring it as I did too. The dark wood and the bronze plaque was different to the usual memorial benches, some of the text was hard to read but the dates, and ‘Mary’ were still visible. He sat next to me and told me how they met.
“It was many years ago, I was walking my dog up here, and she was walking hers. We spoke a little, but not a lot. A few days later I saw her here again, and then again and again.”
He turned to me.
“This was our meeting spot, without telling one another, we just turned up here day after day at the same time. All in this little clearing.”
I didn’t think that an old man’s story could touch me so deeply; I felt like I could cry, but it wasn’t my place to. My bench was across the field; this was his bench and his story.
“It’s funny you say that,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“Oh?” He asked.
“That’s how my best friend and I met.” I gave my strongest smile. “We just happened to meet here each day.”
I pointed to where we had been sitting the day before. “And that’s his bench.”
This was written by our contributing writer, Liam Martin.
Image Source: Pexels, Dariusz Staniszewski
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