The Bench

I go to the bench whenever I need to think, or to plan, to draw, to write. In my memory, I’m sitting
here right now.
Six in the evening is the best time to come. It’s when the lighting is the best. The sun is just setting as
I look across the river, I can see the ducks. They are so peaceful. Just paddling along, doing their
‘ducky’ thing. Every now and then one disappears under the water and then reappears causing the
only ripples in the still water. It’s completely silent except for the chirping in the background and the
sound of his breathing as he sits silently beside me.
There are tiny insects flying above me. No sounds emerge from this swarm but the sound pollution
from a nearby train completely destroys the beauty of this bench. I am saddened by the train
blocking my view of the exquisite mountains, coloured purple from the sun’s rays. The plants
swaying in the breeze reflect almost identically on the waters edge.
Ruby has come to lay beside me. She is so pure, so true. That’s the thing I love about dogs. She
doesn’t love me for what I am and what I am not. She purely loves me for I throw a stick for her.
Poor girl, she takes herself into the water regularly to ease the pain in her arthritic joints.
Another train. It destroys what is the only beautiful part of this city. Oh how I love the natural beauty
that is displayed in front of me.
He has moved to the edge of the river. Attempting to catch a few fish. He looks good in this light. He
looks real, no longer commercialised by what society wants, just himself in his pure, broken, naked
The birds are so clear in this lit, cloudless sky, flying above me, beside me, in front of me. Hopping
from one stalk to another. it’s truly beautiful.
I never knew why I loved this one lonesome, boring, rather ugly bench. It isn’t the bench itself that
makes it the bench, but that which it surrounds itself with.