Old Wooden Bench

Old Wooden Bench by Evelyn Hanes:

I walked through the field and took in my surroundings. Moonlight dancing upon the dew covered grass and tall oak trees rustling with the wind. The cool dirt felt soft underneath my toes and the quiet hum of insects filled the air. Snow melting off the bushes created small stream ways in the grass. The outline of an old bench sits on the hilltop. Looking up at the navy blue sky above me, I could see the stars and a faint milky white outline of the other side of our galaxy. It's been awhile since I came out here alone. Not much has changed though. The swings still sway with the breeze, the hills still roll into the mountains, the old wooden bench still sits lopsided, and the air still smells sweet after rain. As I walk up to the lopsided bench I can see the city below me. Skyscrapers lit up with fluorescent bulbs, radio towers blinking and power lines drooping across the sky.  My eyes come to rest on the lake where I proposed to her. I remember it all so clearly. Her beautiful curls and deep blue eyes. The position of the sun on the hills made it so the whole lake seemed golden and her eyes shined brightly in the evening light. My clothes were soaked through with muddy green water of the lake as was her dress. Getting down on one knee was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. My heart was pounding as I fumbled with the box until I could get the ring out. I will never forget her smile. The way her hands flew up to cover her blushing cheeks. The joy in her eyes as she looked at me. Looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. Man, if I could go back to that day, to that moment and stay there forever.

Now as I sit on this old wooden bench in the fresh spring air, I feel grateful for that day. My mom said I wasted that ring, my father said I should’ve made sure she was the one, but that beautiful girl meant the world to me, and still does. Looking up I see the sky’s now covered with dark clouds. Rain starts to fall and I should probably go back home but something about the calm, lackadaisical landscape keeps me glued to this old wooden bench. A furry little bunny hops across the grass in front of me, looking for a shelter from the rain. He scuttles closer to me and I scoot to one side of the bench. Timidly, the rabbit inches closer and I see a smaller one behind it. I watch as they slowly make their way under the otherside of the bench, baby trailing behind mama. They sit there for a minute trembling and the baby nuzzles into its mother’s warmth. Tension builds between me and the rabbits. Or maybe between my love for the bench and my want to relieve the bunnies of my presence. That’s funny, isn’t it? Nothing says I should leave, but I’ve lost the battle with myself as I bend down and look at them for a minute, then get up, off the old wooden bench, and walk away. She always loved bunnies, loved their curious caution, their fluffy tails. We used to sit on the old wooden bench and study them from a distance. Whenever one would come near she always made us leave. She would tell me over and over how they were the rightful owners of the bench, of the grass and dirt beneath it and we were just borrowing their space. It got annoying sometimes because I just wanted to sit down and relax. But now as I leave the old wooden bench to the bunnies I wish more than anything to have her babbling in my ear.

I kept walking in a clumsy, dazed state, lost in thought and focusing on nothing in particular, the spring air, damp with rain, clinging to me. I’ve walked this trail a thousand times. I know where it leads, yet somehow I’m surprised when I look up and see the leaves of the old apple tree. I remember sneaking out of the house one summer night when we were kids. She had on a red dress, white sneakers, and my grey jacket. I was in pajamas. She knocked on my window around 10 and we walked to the park together in the warm night air. We searched for hours for the perfect spot. The perfect spot for what? I didn’t know, she didn’t tell me till we found it. Around 1 in the morning she knelt down on a patch of dirt and pulled somes seeds out of her jacket pocket. I asked what kind of seeds they were, but didn’t question why we snuck out and walked around for three hours just to plant something. She was random and spontaneous and I loved her for it. So we got down on our hands and knees and planted the apple seeds in the ground. I can still see the scratches on the wood where she and I carved our initials into the trunk after I proposed. I run my fingers over the scarred wood feeling the tree breath in time with the Earth, smiling at the picture of her in my mind, wishing she was here with me, knowing that she’s better off where she is. 

An apple falls from the tree and rolls to a stop at my feet. I pick it up, looking at it’s dark color and the shine of the moonlight off it’s skin. I thought of heading back to the old wooden bench, sitting down and eating an apple sounded nice. However my feet are walking in the opposite direction, down the hill, toward the lake. Shining with the reflection of the spring moon, the lake is drawing me closer and closer. Mountains on the horizon grow into large looming shapes above me and I sit at the water’s edge dipping my fingers into the cold lake. God, she loved this lake. Now I’m sitting here watching my hands create ripples in the water and the whole place feels empty without her. The old wooden bench felt empty without her as well. I can see tadpoles darting around me as I wade deeper into the waters. I can feel the cold wetness rise higher and higher up my body and I lower my head underneath the slow rolling waves. 

I remember that day. She was rocking that poor little canoe so hard, standing there dancing in the middle of the lake. Back and forth, back and forth then splash! And everything was in the water. I looked around and screamed her name, hoping she was coming back up. Her head came above the surface and she was half laughing and half coughing up water. I swam over to that beautiful girl and brought her back to shore. We sat together gasping for air. She stood up and started dancing again, spinning water off her dress and into my eyes. The sun was almost setting, her curls were bouncing up and down, and my heart was pounding. Thankfully, the box didn’t fall out of my hands when the canoe tipped. I had gotten all ready, built up the courage, gotten out the ring,  and started the sentence, when we fell in. Now, looking at her, feeling the sun warm our wet selves, I knew this was the time. I got one knee and opened up the box. She turned around while I recited my prepared speech, telling her how beautiful she was, how amazing she made my life, how I wanted nothing more than to spend my life with her. She said yes through her hands as tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. 

Pulling my head out from under the water there’s a smile on my face and I see the sun starting to come up on the horizon. I walk back up to the shore line looking at the place where she stood on this day six years ago and where I became the luckiest man on Earth. The rain has stopped falling, but it doesn’t matter anymore since I'm already drenched. As I’m walking back up the hill my eye is stung by sunlight reflecting off the chains of a swingset and I’m drawn to the playground behind the old wooden bench. Creaking slightly as they sway in the wind the rusting chains let out a loud groan when I lower myself onto the swing. I enjoy swinging. The soft motion puts my restless body at ease. 

We met on these swings thirty years ago. We were both five and pretending to jump off the swing and fly into space. She launched herself a bit too far once and landed on the old wooden bench face first. She came back and smiled at me with blood on her forehead. We walked to my house together to get her all fixed up and back to the swings we went. She was fearless that way, fearless in all ways. We spent the rest of that day swinging and jumping and becoming best friends. It’s weird to think that in twenty four years we went from strangers, to best friends, to fiances, and all because of that old wooden bench. With that thought I get up off the swing and walk back to the top of the hill. 

Tracing the smooth, weather-worn grain of the wood with my fingers, I ease back into my spot on the bench and think about my last few moments with her. It was a clear spring night like the one it had been a few hours ago and we’d been engaged for a couple of months. She wore ripped black skinny jeans that she had rolled up at the ankles because they were too long for her and dirty white sneakers so old the soles were starting to separate from the rest of the shoe. Her shirt was a pale blue color that went beautifully with her long curls. It was a low cut shirt with a v shaped neckline and long sleeves. She had purposely pulled out the middle of her shirt so it wasn’t tight around her stomach and there were stretch marks in the fabric. Her eyes were big and round, her smile was full and genuine, and her freckles were a perfect compliment to the rest of her face. She was make up free, a rare occurrence, and her eyelashes were long and dark just like her eyebrows. As we sat together on the old wooden bench I could feel the pit in my stomach grow. I began the conversation by asking her how she was and listening and responding thoroughly to her answer, then when she asked me the same in return I told her the truth. I told her about the cancer. I told her how I’d been going to the doctors for months but it’s only kept growing. I told her how hard it was to live with the constant ache in my bones and ringing in my ears. I told her how much I loved her and how I’d only wanted to protect her from the horrible life cancer brings. She sat there with tears in her eyes as I talked more. I explained to her how one day I’d been at my mother’s house and had passed out and that’s how they found it. The doctors told me I had tumors in my brain, lungs, and liver. They told me I could try chemo and other radiation therapies but there was a low chance of success and a high chance of relapse. She covered her mouth with her hands as the tears streamed down her face. I grabbed her hand, and stayed silent for a moment. Then looked her in the eyes, wiped away her tears and told the rest of my story. I told her that I didn’t want treatment because it would only make the suffering more drawn out and cost my family too much money. I told her that I was slipping and didn’t want to spend my last few days in the hospital, that I wanted to spend them with her, sitting here, on this old wooden bench. I looked at this beautiful girl I’d somehow been lucky enough to get and put my hand on her cheek. The moonlight made the tears on her face glisten and her eyes sparkle. The wind was slow and gentle, but steady and rhythmic. The air was thick and sweet like warm maple syrup and there were bunnies down the hill from us. They were chasing each other around in a fun little game. I grabbed her face and looked her in the eyes. 

“I love you Anna,” and that was it. My last words as the cancer finally took over five and half years ago and I died in her arms sitting on this old wooden bench.