Benched
by Charlie Kirby

Oh, it's been about ten years since Rob left me. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss him and wish he was here, but it wasn't meant to be. In the beginning, I used to come to the park just to escape the confinement of the memories our little house held. It was a chance to get away from well-meaning friends and to take comfort in some solitude and peace. I would scatter a few crumbs for the pigeons and some cheeky squirrels and daydream a little.

That's when I first saw him, so thin and pale at first I thought he was one of the numerous homeless men and women who made the park their refuge during the day. He was so alone and so solemn that I never had the courage to approach him. He wore that seriousness like armor and hid behind it if someone ventured too close. I would sit on my bench and watch him staring out at a world that seemed foreign to him, watched him react to everyday things like Good Humor men and police on horses with both a sense of awe and confusion. It took me awhile to realize he was a stranger to our shores, just like so many others in the great city. He'd come here seeking something, but as sad as his blue eyes were, I suspected it had eluded him, just as it had eluded so many others.

Then, suddenly, he wasn't alone. There was a man, dark haired, laughing, the complete opposite of my little friend, and that's when I watched him change, going from brooding stranger to laughing companion. When they were there together, it was as if the entire world went away and it was just the two of them, talking, joking, occasionally eating lunch, but more often than not, just enjoying each other's company.

Through the seasons, I watched them age, as surely I must have as well. They would disappear for weeks on end and just when I started to despair, they would be there, as if the absence never happened. When I first noticed the injuries, it's hard to say. I don't know exactly what caused them, nor did I really want to, but their bodies frequent bore the traces of a difficult life. Whatever they did for a living, it wasn't an easy path. Still, they didn't seem to complain; they didn't need to, they had each other. And it was obvious that was all they needed or perhaps even desired from the world.

I was sitting on my little bench, tossing stale popcorn to the greedy pigeons who pecked at it and each other, when I saw him approaching. He was wearing dark glasses and his hair fell in a dark curtain over his forehead. I'd never seen him so undone. Of the pair, he was always the neat one, impeccably dressed, always groomed, just like my Rob used to be. That man wouldn't go out of the house if his underwear wasn't ironed.

He sat down, shoulders bowed, and for the first time in a long time, I felt the need to connect with him. Yet he seemed so discouraged, so broken, I was afraid to approach him. Afraid that he might mistake my sympathy, as well meaning as it was, for something other than what it was. I wanted to ask him where his friend was, but I was too scared. Just from the way he sat, I knew; I knew it would be too terrible to hear.

At last I could bear it no longer and I fled, leaving him behind, looking like a little boy lost in that gray afternoon's watery sun. I raced home to the sanctuary of my purring cat, hot chocolate, and good memories.

It was many days before I was brave enough to venture back to the park, but the day was so brilliant I couldn't stay away. It was cold, but the sky was bright blue and the winter sun as warm as buttered toast. Collecting my nerve, I resumed my seat upon my little bench and waited. Their absence, his absence, would make sense now. He would not come back to the park, not without his friend. He wouldn't face memories he could easily avoid.

The day stretched into two, then a week and then a month. Winter slowly released its grip on the city and the birds began to sing, the flowers began to bloom and the world continued to move around me. The day was warm and full of promise. It was still too early to pack away the winter clothes, but Spring teased and flaunted itself now.

Then I saw them, moving slowly, one supporting the other and my heart sang. He wasn't gone, they weren't gone. My little friend didn't look well and he needed both a cane and his friend to walk, but he was there.

They sat and once again the world moved around them. Their hands never left each other now, supportive, reassuring, as if afraid to let go and I felt like a voyeur, watching a private scene that no one had a right to view. That was also the day that I decided I'd had enough with merely being an observer of life. I was ready to grab hold of it again and, like my little friend, live. As I walked past them, I heard their voices for the first time.

"Are you doing okay? Are you tired? Do you want to go back?"

"I'm fine, Napoleon, don't fuss."

No, Napoleon, I thought. Sweetheart, you fuss all you want. You grab on and hold tight. After all, it isn't often you find someone in this life worth fussing over, but when you do, no price is too great to pay for it.