Every
morning, on my normal walk to the station, I pass by a wooden bench placed on
the side of the park, a main feature on my daily commute and a great companion.
A small engraved metal piece hangs on the top of the bench, half of it has
fallen off and the remaining half reads: “in the memory of”. I always wanted to
look around for the missing piece to find in who’s memory this bench was
placed, but I never had the extra 5 minutes to look around.
The
bench is a very popular spot in the park, always populated with different
individuals, I pass it on specific times and I often find the same person, or
people sharing the bench.
I
leave home at 7am on Mondays, in summer in it is great time to be out in the
park, while during winter when dark nights stretch its arms around most of the
day, it is sad time to be out. I always meet on the bench a man and his dog. In
his late 70s, thin, tall and always dressed smartly that I instinctively check
my tie and shirt when I pass him . His
hair says that he has been proud of it all his life, all white but as in “ I
was blond, you know” sort of white hair, and I often see him straitening it
with his hand, which shows how much he cared about it. He would be sitting
there watching his distinctively white Jack Russell playing with the leafs at
his feet.
I
imagined countless stories about his life, how many girlfriends he had, the
places he has been to, the wars he fought in, and the many friends he buried
through his life. Our eyes often meet, mine would say to his that I know so
much about you, his would say to mine I do not think you do, but we never
exchanged any words. Two years ago he stopped meeting me, or I stopped seeing
him on the bench, at first I thought he might be sick, a couple of weeks passed
by and I said to myself that I should visit him in the hospital but which
hospital and how can I find him in the
hospital, I do not even know his name. Two months passed and I was sure he was
dead, I felt guilty that I did not visit him and did not make the effort to
attend his funeral, the cemetery is on the other side of the park and I must
make the effort to visit his grave. After six months and as autumn was
announcing its arrival through the falling leaves and early sunsets I saw him sitting on the
bench, 7 am Monday as usual. This time his distinctively white Jack Russell was
not there, I immediately realized what happened, my tears filled my eyes as I
remembered that cheerful dog, wanted to go to him and offer my condolences,
tell him that he has lost his friend, but I am still his friend and I am there
for him, but of course I did not, I continued through my path finding the rest
of my Monday.
to be continued
Nice one..
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