The Bench That Watched Me Grow Up

The Bench That Watched Me Grow Up

By: Abdullah

The first time I sat on that bench, I was seven years old. My mother had packed a picnic basket full of peanut butter sandwiches, a bottle of orange juice, and a blanket that smelled faintly of laundry soap. She spread it out on the grass near the pond while I chased pigeons and pretended I could outrun the wind.

The bench itself wasn’t much to look at just worn wood, peeling paint, and one crooked armrest but it sat in the perfect spot. From there, you could see the willow tree leaning over the water, the ripples of ducks swimming in lazy circles, and, if you were lucky, the sunlight glittering on the surface like it was trying to speak a secret language.

Back then, it was just a place to rest tired legs. I didn’t know it would become something else entirely.



The second time, I was seventeen. The picnic blanket was gone, replaced by a notebook and a pen that barely worked. I was there with him my first love. His name was Daniel, and he had this way of looking at you like you were the only person in the world who had something worth saying. We talked about everything that afternoon about the future, about books, about how neither of us really liked orange juice.

When the sun began to set, he said, “Let’s promise to always come back here, no matter what.”
It sounded easy then. At seventeen, forever feels like something you can just decide.



The third time, I was twenty-two, and Daniel wasn’t with me. Life had happened the kind that doesn’t leave you with clear villains or happy endings. He’d moved away, and so had I. We’d promised to write, and for a while, we did. Then the letters slowed. Then they stopped.

That day, I sat on the bench alone, watching the willow tree sway in the wind. The water didn’t sparkle the same way. I told myself it was just the clouds, but deep down I knew it was me who had changed.


The fourth time was unexpected. I was twenty-eight, walking through the park on my lunch break, when I saw an old man sitting there, feeding the ducks. He looked up, smiled, and asked if I’d like to join him. I did. We talked for an hour. He told me about his wife, gone ten years now, and how they’d sat on this very bench the day he proposed.

Before he left, he said, “You know, benches are funny things. They hold the weight of all the people who’ve ever sat on them. Maybe that’s why they creak.”

I laughed, but later, I thought about it more than I expected to.


The fifth time, I was thirty-three. I had just signed the divorce papers. My hands were shaking, not from sadness alone, but from the fear that comes with starting over. I walked to the park without thinking, as if my feet knew where I needed to go before my mind did.

The bench was empty. I sat down, closed my eyes, and listened to the water, to the birds, to the sound of my own breathing. I remembered every version of myself that had ever sat here. The seven-year-old chasing pigeons. The teenager in love. The twenty-two-year-old trying to understand loss. The woman who had just needed someone to talk to.

They were all still here, somewhere inside me.



The last time at least so far was last spring. I brought my daughter. She was five, with curls that refused to be tamed and a laugh that turned strangers’ heads. We sat together, eating peanut butter sandwiches.

“Why do you like this bench?” she asked.

I thought about the years. The people. The promises kept and broken.
“Because it reminds me,” I said.
“Of what?”
“That everything changes, and that’s okay.”

She didn’t understand, not yet. But she will. One day, she’ll sit on this bench without me, and she’ll see the willow tree and the water and maybe even a stranger who needs someone to talk to. And she’ll realize the bench isn’t magic. It’s just a place.