“The Bench by the Lake”

“The Bench by the Lake”

By: Zeeshan Ali

There’s a bench by the lake not far from where I live. It’s old—wood cracking at the sides, paint faded, screws rusty—but it still holds, quiet and proud, watching the ripples in the water like an old friend who’s seen too much to speak quickly.

When I was a child, my grandfather brought me here every Sunday after mosque. He would buy us ice cream cones—mine always vanilla, his always chocolate—and we’d sit and listen to the wind. Not talk. Just sit.

I didn’t understand it then. I thought it was boring. I wanted to play, to run, to do something. But he was stubborn. “You’ll learn more from watching than running,” he used to say. At the time, it sounded like nonsense.

It’s funny how time flips everything. Years later, after he passed away, I found myself coming to that same bench. Not because anyone told me to. Not because I was chasing some nostalgic memory. Just because one day, the world felt loud and heavy, and my feet led me here. The lake hadn’t changed. The bench hadn’t moved. But I had.

I sat. I watched. And I understood.

That bench became my escape from the world. When I lost my first job, I came here. When my best friend moved abroad, I came here. When my father cried for the first time after my mother’s funeral, I came here.

It’s not just a bench anymore. It’s a witness to my life.

One evening, not too long ago, I saw a young boy sitting there—alone, like I used to be. I nodded at him as I passed, and he didn’t nod back. He just looked out at the lake like it held some answer he desperately needed. I walked away, then turned around.

I sat next to him without saying a word.

For a while, we just listened to the birds. The wind. The small waves lapping the shore. Then I said, “It gets easier.”

He looked up, startled. “What?”

“Whatever it is you’re going through,” I said, “it gets easier.”

He blinked a few times. “You don’t even know me.”

I smiled. “You’re right. But pain… it has a language. I used to speak it fluently. Still do, some days.”

He didn’t reply. But he didn’t get up and walk away either.

“You don’t need to tell me what happened,” I continued. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is just sit by the lake and let the silence do the talking.”

He exhaled. A deep breath—like he had been holding it in all day. “My mom just got diagnosed with cancer.”

I turned to him slowly. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, but there were tears in his eyes. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.”

“So was I,” I said. “When my mom got sick, I was older than you. But not much braver.”

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “How did you get through it?”

“I didn’t. I just kept going.”

Silence fell again. The lake sparkled under the fading sun. The boy’s shoulders relaxed just a little.

“Come here often,” I told him. “Let the bench hold your weight when you can’t. It helped me more than people did.”

He laughed—barely. But it was a laugh. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

He stood up after a while. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “For not asking too many questions.”

He left, and I sat there alone again. But the silence didn’t feel the same. It felt warmer.

We all have a bench somewhere. A place we run to when the world spins too fast. It might not be by a lake. It might be a room, a book, a song, or a memory. But it's there.

If you’re reading this, and life feels too heavy—find your bench. Find your stillness. You don’t need all the answers today. You just need a place where you can breathe, and let the questions float away for a while.

You’ll be okay. Maybe not today. But eventually.

And when you're stronger, look around. There might be someone else sitting next to you, waiting to be reminded that it gets easier.

Be their bench.