Short Story : The bench

Photo by Ayhuma Amazona - Tallinn, Estonia.

Thirty years ago, the company managing the building where I live decided to replace the vast and hideous concrete slab stretching under our windows with a garden.

I saw nothing of the work; I was still working back then, and in the mornings the workers hadn’t arrived yet, and by evening, they had already gone home. 

All I saw were piles of rubble, deep holes, heaps of earth, filled-in trenches, and finally, the first flowers being planted.

For six months, it seemed to me that the materials and objects used were autonomous, that they knew what to do and how to do it, without needing the help of man. 

Of course, this is impossible; it's my whimsical side speaking, but still, there was something magical about it.

On weekends, while drinking my coffee by the window, I hoped to catch a glimpse of some movement in the middle of the construction site, but it never happened.

A month after the work, we had all forgotten what the building looked like with its ugly gray slab.

Like some of my neighbors, I must have photos where it can be seen, but who would want to remember it?

As for me, it's a memory I’m glad to have forgotten, unlike others, but what can be done against the ravages of time? From my window, I enjoyed the newly formed green sea.

Among the trees, bushes, flowerbeds, and lawns where birds have returned, to my great joy, there is a bench.

When I first discovered it, I laughed. I found it stupid, with its four legs and dark green color, right there at the foot of the building.

Who would sit on it so close to home? Then I thought about the architect who had drawn up the plans, presenting his designs to a commission, competing with his colleagues.

The bench had to be the cornerstone of his project, the element that would tip the scale in his favor, and it worked. Good for that person.

Going to and from work, I passed by this UFO and looked at it. It wasn't ugly; its seat was deep, and it looked comfortable, but I never sat on it, and I never saw anyone sit on it either.

It started to make me feel sorry for it, condemned to uselessness, alone, unjustly fixed to the ground with deep screws, with no chance to use its four legs to roam freely.

Once, I wanted to break its chains, give it its freedom back, but it was late, I was tired, and I went home to bed.

Time passed since that day, and the bench remained there, faithful to its post, watching comings and goings. Like other residents, it saw me grow older.

Then it saw me retire and run from here to there, trying to make the most of the free time I had sacrificed too much for work. Then it saw me start to limp; my knee had become fragile, a consequence of a fracture I had suffered in my youth and poorly healed. 

I began to drag myself, and each outing became more painful than the last. The pain worsened year after year, and with it came others, making my daily life burdensome.

With regret, I started to cut back on my weekly walks; I had to relieve my body, according to the doctor. But when I stayed at home, I found comfort at my window, spending hours watching the leaves dance in the wind, the birds coming and going, and the bench, standing alone amid this joy.

It was a Wednesday. I had gone to do my weekly shopping at the market, taking my trolley that required no extra effort and which I could lean on, in addition to the cane that had become a part of my hand.

I was coming back, loaded with delicious food, when a sharp pain seized my entire leg. It was paralyzed; I couldn’t do anything. The only way to relieve myself would have been to lie down, which was impossible on the street.

So, I looked around for a place to sit, but there was nothing. I stood for ten minutes in the middle of the sidewalk, clinging to my trolley, waiting for the pain to subside, aware that I was a nuisance to the hurried people who had to walk around me, grumbling.

The pain eventually passed, and I was exhausted. I stayed for another five minutes, gathering my strength, and then went back home. I passed through the gate that separates our garden from the street and walked up the little path leading to my building.

I had stopped to take the key from my pocket when my leg started hurting again. I was about to fall backward, and my cane was of no help this time, but by some miracle, I managed to pivot and sit on the bench.

I had imagined it might be comfortable with its deep seat, but not this comfortable! As I sat down, the pain in my leg immediately disappeared, and I fell asleep from relief.

It was when I opened my eyes, I don't know how long I had been like that or how many people had seen me, that I understood why this bench, the only one of its kind, was the cornerstone of the project of an unknown architect to whom I owed my salvation.

It was ideally placed, as if the garden had been designed from this point, specifically for it, to relieve it of its solitude. Sitting there, you could admire the play of colors of the flowers, the shades of green that darkened as your gaze extended toward the far end of the building, the lamps illuminating the paths leading to the different buildings, perfectly blending with the vegetation, creating the illusion that the trees were showing the way.

 And most importantly, I could see the street, the ultimate show of quality for old age, without being disturbed by its bustle. I finally stood up, fully recovered, and went back home, delighted with this comfortable discovery.

Since that incident, I have stopped going on long walks. The pains in my leg have become daily; walking has become exhausting, and now I’m afraid of falling in the street. To cope with this inevitable loss of independence, I called in a home aide who comes to my house twice a week, once to do the shopping and once to clean.

After she finished what she had to do, and because she was fortunately chatty, we would always chat for an hour over coffee and some biscuits.

Not being able to walk is a forewarning of death, but I still have a bit of strength left, and I gather the last reserves I have to go down to the garden and sit on the bench. 

It’s not as eloquent as the home aide, but it knows how to distract me. I would go down to sit there in the early afternoon, with no reading, and immerse myself in everything around me.

Over time, I began to spot the residents of the neighborhood and get to know their habits. I won’t go into the details of all those I saw pass by, but I would amuse myself by marking the time when I spotted them.

Like that young man I saw pass by the residence every day at exactly 5:05 p.m. I knew that after him, some residents as old as me would go out for their daily walk, those who had left early for work would soon return, and all would greet me or stop to exchange a few words.

Until then, I remained silent, contemplating nature and getting lost in the vague memories of my past life.

Years passed, and I went down earlier and earlier to sit on the bench, even that had become an effort. The time was approaching when I wouldn’t be able to go down anymore, not be able to move at all, so I took advantage of it as much as I could.

I eventually got to know everyone who passed by the residence, and for each of them, I had made a little schedule. I no longer needed a watch; every person who passed gave me the time, and my days flowed in sync with their activities.

Then one morning, when I went down as usual, I found the place empty. The bench was gone, and all that remained were the deep screws that had held it captive for so many years.

I didn’t ask the caretaker any questions, I didn’t call the company that managed the building, I just went back upstairs. The disappearance of the bench hadn’t saddened me; on the contrary, it had made me happy, happy for it.

Today, I no longer go out. I no longer have the strength. I can only drag my old carcass to the window and stay there, navigating in thought on the sea of vegetation spreading beneath me. Sometimes my gaze lands where the bench used to be. It hasn’t been replaced, and I imagine it free in another place, which I will soon discover.