The Bench

There once was a bench. Just an old, wooden park bench, situated between two other old wooden park benches. The typical resting spots for couples of all ages ages, and newspaper readers alike. There is nothing special about the bench itself, it was just a bench. And this story doesn't revolve around the bench as you might presume at first, the bench revolves around the stories. An outer orbiting planet, just one part of a much larger solar system. And in our solar system there was this one particular bench.

I imagine that if this bench could talk it would have many stories to tell. But benches can't talk, so they're not story tellers. Benches are story keepers. Every dent, and stain, and piece of litter left behind on the bench hold a story, a fraction of a life's history.

There are seeds scattered around it from the elderly men and women who come by often to feed the birds. There are initials carved into by people who are, or once were in love, and have left their love behind on the bench. There are hateful messages spray-painted onto it by those who are hurting and confused. They have nothing against the bench; they are just looking for a way to tell their story. There is yesterday's newspaper, wrinkled and discarded telling the stories of some people who couldn't tell their stories for themselves. There is loose change left by someone careless, too important to stoop down and pick up a few dimes. There is change left by someone caring, for someone who might need it to care for themselves. There is a small child's collection of pebbles and flower heads brought proudly before a young mother who doesn't realize their importance. Each of these things left at the bench, left with the bench, accidentally or on purpose, every object holds a deeper significance. A significance that most passersby wouldn't care to notice. However, there was one who noticed, one man who passed by.

On a Thursday in March, the sky was overcast and the park deserted. A man walked slowly down the path. Eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere, lost deep in his own thoughts. Who can really say what made him stop. Why here? Why this park? Why this bench? But he did stop, and with a slight reluctance, sat down. Still mulling things over within himself, he looked around. And dazed though he was, his eyes saw what very few others could. His mind took in and understood what others wouldn't have bothered to notice. He took a handfull of the flowers and pebbles and thought of his own children. He thought of what was, and is, and what no longer could be. He traced his hands over the initials and thought of his beautiful wife, and how her loved her and what he had never meant to put her through. He thought of her courage, and strength and of the better life that she would soon have. The backpack he carried slumped at his feet. One silent tear slipped down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away, and it hung on his chin. There was no need for pride anymore. He unzipped the knapsack and pulled out the pills. The medicine that was supposed to help. The medicine that was supposed to restore to him his right mind. The medicine that he had hated so fervently from the beginning. He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed. Now they would finally help him.
Glancing around again he noticed the newspaper and read the headline about some problem with the city's budget. There had been problems with the family budget for years, hopefully that would change. Popping open the cap again, he takes two more pills. Picking up the few coins on the bench he puts them inside the fold of the newspaper and is pleased with himself for solving the city's financial issue. 4 more pills. He glances at his wedding ring, and with great heaving sobs clutches it to his heart. Another two pills, and another. He pours the remaining pills into his palm, and puts all but one into his mouth. The last pill he sets down on the bench next to the flowers and pebbles. Yet another priceless token of the bench, from a man who had already given so much to the world, it was his last gift. He himself had been given many gifts. The gift of music, and language, humour, cleverness, culinary genius, creativity, and compassion. The last thing he could give back was his story. The story of an extraordinary and talented man, who never quite belonged in this world. And with that, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Who can say exactly how much later he was found by that runner and taken to the hospital. But this story's not about that. This story is about a man, a real man. Whose failures were overshadowed by his triumphs, whose personality was as unique as his Creator, and whose story has left a lasting impression on many of us. But this world became too much, and in a moment of weakness and strength, a decision was made that leaves us without him. There is nothing easy or simple or rational about suicide. There is nothing easy or simple or rational about depression. There is nothing that is easy or simple or rational this side of heaven. But let our focus not be on the death, for that was but a moment in time. Let us remember a life, a good life, a hard life, a life intertwined with our own. And then, with the knowledge that he is home, in a place he belongs so completely, we can let his memory rest within us, within the world, and with the bench.