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Weekly Contest #357
The bench wore no name. No brass plate, no carved devotion, nothing to sever it from the dozens of others anchored in the park's green drift. Yet, for forty-three years, it had been the center of my quiet world. Every morning, while the sky was still a bruised and breathless blue, I unlocked the iron gates. I swept the wandering leaves, gave water to the parched roots, and always, inevitably, ended my rounds beneath the ancient oak. Then, I sat. And the world arrived. A park groundskeeper learns early that benches are not merely wood and iro...
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