Just a Bench
It’s just a bench.
A place to sit while you wait for the bus.
A small, simple thing to make public transit just a little more bearable.
It’s not a metaphor,
it’s not symbolic,
it doesn’t represent anything.
It’s just some rotting pieces of wood.
Old two-by-fours haphazardly nailed together
with some ambulance chaser on the back no one cares to look at.
Bloated and splintery from one too many rainy nights,
barely strong enough to support the people sitting on it.
Or the kid sleeping on it.
His one small comfort knowing that, at least for tonight, it can be his bed,
and that duffel bag full of clothes under his head can be his pillow.
Because those rotting pieces of wood,
held together by rusty nails
are the only support he has left;
the only thing in the world he knows will hold him,
keeping him safe and warm even as the rest of that world abandons him.
Tomorrow is an unknown animal,
claws out and fangs bared,
ready to tear him apart.
But at least tonight he’s somewhere familiar,
because this isn’t his first night on that bench.
At this point it’s almost an old friend,
always there when no one else is.
And that stupid smiling ambulance chaser
is a kind reminder that somewhere out there,
there’s still something normal in the world.
It’s just a bench.
Something no one thinks twice about,
if they think about it at all.
But it’s something that, even years later,
he can’t bear to think about.
So he aside like a bad dream;
a nightmare some scared kid had before he woke up.
Each day that passes
is another day removed from that night.
Until it’s almost faded,
a memory he can’t even remember.
Just more proof of how strong he’s become;
the man that conquered his fears by forgetting them
But there’s no strength in forgetting.
He won’t admit it, not even to himself,
how his desire to succeed is rooted in fear.
That he spends his life running from failure,
because he’s one mistake, one bad day away
from being back on that bus bench,
cold, scared, and alone.
Always alone.
A life spent running is no life at all,
and the man feels old, and oh so tired.
Aged by fear, and anger, and regret;
it was time to go back,
and run to meet an old friend.
Because it’s not just a bench.
It’s a portal back to those dark days
of abuse and abandonment and the fantasy of how easy it would be to end his pain.
Of the will to keep going because he will not be defined by those rotting pieces of wood.
Of trying so hard not to let it define him,
that he let it control him anyway.
So driving down that long stretch of highway,
he runs faster and faster towards that terrifying old friend,
before he loses his nerve and turns back.
Steeling himself even as the fear sets in and the panic attack takes hold,
he breathlessly, soundlessly cries.
But he will not turn back.
He gathers every ounce of courage he has,
parks far away and starts to walk
that same walk he made all those years ago.
He sees his rotting old friend;
the one he hated and tried so hard to forget.
he makes his way, never looking away,
and he sits down
After all…
It’s just a bench.
