The Brick Wall and the Bench

There the brick wall stands and solitary bench sits. The wall had worn over the years of harsh wind, pelting rain, and glaring sun that relentlessly falls upon it day after day. The bench had its fair share of nature’s fury, its wood was rotting in the most mismatched way, the black finish on its metal arms and legs were chipped from the horrible storms it has been forced to endure. The wall and bench are sad things to the average passerby, poor little trinkets lost in time.

There’s something captivating about these tortured monuments though, to those that dare wait and listen. You could touch the wall, even for just a fraction of a moment, and feel its content. It seems to soak up the essence of the people that brush up against it in its exhausted colors and porous formation. It is miraculously warm with the love it has for those that pass by; and even those that rest against it when they need support. It holds those who are down on their luck up and cradles them in everlasting affection, though that affection is often not reciprocated. So press your hand to the wall and feel its solidity, its strength through the long test of time, feel the warmth from the people it’s been silently watching, guarding. The wall may watch over you and me, but it isn’t an ominous thing, it’s a testament to the purest part of us. What a marvelous mingling of thoughts, of feelings, of life, of every one of us; and all of this from just one touch.

Hold your ear to the wall and you can hear a powerful “thump thump-thump” coming from a place that seems unknown, but it’s that marvelous wall, that wonderful creature that stands in solace and watches the world go slowly by. You can hear the laughter from the children at play around it, even if there is no one around you. “Stay a while longer,” the wall begs all that come near, knowing that none can stay and that none can hear. Listen to the soft cries of the wall as it is left without those it loves. Oh how its solace is a torture and a blessing.

I’ve watched the wall, like it watches us; and the more I stare into its colors, the more I see the warm face of a mother, smiling. A mother worn with the most charming cracks and inviting flaws every mother possesses. It looks at me, that wall does, like a proud parent, basking in the youth of its children, understanding that it can only watch us grow and leave. The colors stare into my soul, they call to it, with just a glance from me. When I tear myself away from that wall, like it and I both know I must do, the worn yellow, faded red, rusted orange, remain and resonate within me.

Of course the bench can’t be forgotten either. The weather may not have been kind to the bench’s outward appearance, but to the touch, it had worn down the sandy wood in the best way possible. If you sit on the old bench, it’ll give a tiny bit and groan a little under your body, like a firm bed; and if you run your fingers along its light, curved wood, you’ll feel its velveteen softness. Its arms may be chipped, but rest a hand on one for a while, a few flakes may peel, but the smooth metal underneath is unmoving. Unchanging.

Relax against the smooth bench, its calm presence is what the busy lives around it need. Lying on the bench is like resting on the most delicate, most luxurious, cotton-like cloud. The bench’s gentleness will lull you to your most pleasant dreams. The glorious arms and legs of the bench offer the sturdiest frame for you to find security in. The bench will not hurry you off, no, instead it invites you to stay as long as you can, it promises to protect and hold you in its grasp.

After much pondering and quiet observation of the bench, its energy and appearance is most like that of a grandfather; with its deep and familiar fissures that grow more abundant as the years tick restlessly by, and its comforting stability that refuses to yield to any force that has continually been thrown at it. The bench sits proud and firm, unwilling to move as the nature around it attempts to erode it and carry it far away.

So there the loving wall stands and the protective bench sits, two pieces nature tries to leave behind, two pieces we have forgotten, two pieces that will never bow. The wall and bench call and beckon us to stand still, to watch, and to listen; but they know it, like I have come to know, that only a few will stop to marvel at their quiet magnificence and unyielding affections.