It is the only one who has observed so many. I am the only one who knows it’s still there.  One lonesome bench with worn wooden planks and weeds creeping up around its legs. One lonesome bench that has heard the stories of so many who have sat there but only listened. One companionless bench created to give rest to the weary. From a path, I can see it, but others just pass by and don’t appreciate this thing.

Its stories are secret. They are carved into its dark cherry wood. They swirl up and they curl down and pierce deep into the fibers of the wood and create an intricate design of swirls and each one is a unique tale. This is how it stays strong.

If it forgets the stories it has been told, it would crumble like a sand castle on the beach, swept away by the waves of the ocean. Strong, Strong, Strong it whispers to itself. It stays.

When I am too sad and too lost to keep strong, when I feel like there is no one to listen, then it is I who finds the bench. When there is no one there to catch my falling tears. One who stands despite years of abandonment. One who listens and does not forget to listen. One whose only reason is to be and be.