The bench in the square

The Bench in the Square

There was this old bench. It was made of weathered wood with exposed nails, and the varnish was cracked and faded. It was located smack dab in the middle of the city square near a kiosk and directly across the street from the school. Nobody seemed to pay attention to it. Not even me.

I have no idea how it all began. But one morning, I found myself unable to walk inside. For a brief second, I'd stop and sit on the bench. It was as if everything else stopped moving while I was sitting there. No noise, no eyes upon me, no expectations to fulfill a role that was never mine. Only the bench and me. That was it.

Mary and I had only met through Modern Greek Class. She sat three rows ahead of me in class. She was calm, nice, intelligent, and did not mock people. Occasionally, she came to sit on the bench in the city square. Initially, we would not speak to each other. Eventually, we exchanged smiles and "good mornings." At some point, I asked:

"Do you find this stressful?"

She looked me straight in the eye.

"People bother me more than lessons do. People want me to be someone I am not."

I didn't realize it at the time, but in that moment, she helped me find my way. After that, we sat together on the bench. We did not talk frequently, but when we did, words flowed naturally. We talked about our dreams. Mary wanted to write stories and novels, although her father wanted her to become a doctor. Me? I didn't really know what I wanted to do in the future. But this time, I felt I could be without knowing exactly what I wanted to do, and not feel terrible about it.

On a Tuesday, I decided I should go to school. I simply wanted to get away. My parents fought constantly because of my poor math grades. My mother claimed I was not working hard enough, and my father was so mad that he threw my sneakers in the trash.

I stayed home for two days and went back to school on Thursday.

When I returned, she handed me a piece of paper that had been folded up. It was not "Be brave," "Have hope," or anything like that. It was a simple statement:

"I don't care who you are, as long as you're being yourself. I'll be waiting for you on the bench. Anytime you want."

Something inside of me shifted. I did not say a word. The next day, I arrived at the square before she did.

"Thank you so much!"

"No need to thank me. I will be there. Together."

This was to become our daily routine. An alliance, but not based on love or friendship. Something more profound. A help.

In March, I told her:

"I am not going to take Medicine. I am planning to study fine arts at the School of Fine Arts."

Her eyes lit up with happiness, rather than concern.

She took the same road. Instead of studying Military Medicine, she chose Literature. "I want to express myself," she explained.

"I want to give a voice to the ones that are silent." On the day the test scores were published, we were not crying - we were laughing. I got accepted into Applied Arts, and she into Literature. We did not do what others wanted us to do, but what WE wanted to do.

As we were leaving to head to the cities to continue our studies, we stopped by the bench in the city square. It was still there. We put a small note on the back of the bench, carefully sticking it between the wooden grains: "Silence. There is space for thoughts here." Then we walked off.

Years later, when I go back to my old neighborhood, I usually spend a bit of time in the square. I have a strange sensation: as if the faint whispers of "thanks you," as faint confessions of teenage moments, still echo among the grains of the wooden planks.

The bench is always in its original position. It has given itself over to silence. And yet...it still holds life. Perhaps for another kid who is sitting there right now, alone, waiting to ask - just as I once did:

"Do you ever feel this kind of pressure, too?"