Park Benches

It is not a rare occurrence that I see a park bench that, instead of being freshly stained and sanded, is littered with names. The former is a bench that I would expect to find in a private garden -- surrounded by roses, a place where women in sundresses would place themselves to chat. It, the garden bench, is a scene of serenity. The latter, though no longer pristine and guest-worthy, is intriguing. Once as nice as the garden bench, this bench is a relied upon place of rest, and, going above and beyond its duties as a bench, it has become a proof of existence.

You see, the latter has met hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. It is riddled with names: “Ethan,” “Mary,” “Glenn,” “Rachel.” Along with the names are initials, often equations that are equivalent to love: “B.E.L.,” “A+C.” There are so many there is no room for me to fit my own, and it is crude lettering -- gouges and scratches that are an uneven pattern beneath my fingertips. I do not know any of these people, but there is a connection between myself and them. We have been at the same place; that is what makes the bench such an intrigue. Although some may look upon the bench with disgust and call it vandalism, I would call it beautiful The names have transformed the bench into something more than just a bench. It resembles the existence of individuals and the memories that they made. To me, it is a piece of romance.