mmmcclxix

The Park Bench

I’d had no idea it was
foggy before I stepped
out some thirty minutes
previous to rest on the
bench. I suppose there
were two benches. At
first I sat under the
drooping yellow bells,
breathing in the intense
so sweet you’d think it’d
be sickly aroma of the
bells, which were looking
a bit haggard, had seen
better times, the trees
always seem in bloom,
have been there for a
few years now, but as
I sat, facing the trad-
itional department
store, under the can-
opy of the browning
yellow bells, a gentle-
man kept approaching
my bench looking for,
he said, his wallet and
his torch, which he’d
just lost. I could cer-
tainly empathize with
his loss, but I was al-
ready a bit anxious
from the rush of get-
ting out and about be-
fore dark, which I only
just barely did. I fussed
around a bit with my bag
of snacks, which I’d just
purchased at the pharmacy
on the way to the square,
got everything situated in
my backpack, and stood
up and walked around to
the more open part of the
square, sat down on a chilly
but empty bench that had
a panoramic view of the
city’s upper scale shopping
district around me, wonder-
ing what I might have to say
about what I saw, how I was
feeling, what I was thinking,
the people, mostly masked,
walking to and fro across
the square, some at more
of a diagonal, in essence
walking from intersection
to intersection, and others
would walk more parallel
to a couple of the streets
that tucked the park into
a square. Although it was
the heart of dusk and quick-
ly darkening, given that the
glorious and surprising fog
had come in at some point
during the evening, breaking
what had been a week-long
heatwave, for the first few
minutes there were still
presumed tourists, or
just people like me, who
who would pause to snap
a photo of the commem-
orative monument that
rose high into the air
and up into the sky from
the center of the square,
or of themselves, or of
each other, before mov-
ing along on their diagonal
or horizontal or vertical ways
to wherever it was they were
going. But within what seemed
like no time at all, maybe twenty
minutes, my thoughts still a swirl-
ing and unsettled admixture, it
was as dark as night gets in a
square that is nestled among
brightly lit department stores
and hotels. Which is to say, it

was as late as I had intended

to stay.  So, without really

accomplishing the goal that I
had initially set out to do (it
had, I suppose, been an hour
since I first ventured out), I
leaned forward and rose from
the metal bench, which I had
only just warmed a little bit
during my visit, and I turned
in the general direction of
home, and began my walk
back, where, once I’d ar-

rived and settled down a 

bit, I set about typing this

to send to you at a decent
hour. I hope it arrives with
good cheer, peacefully and
pleasantly, and that it brings
you a little something that
catches and stays, perhaps
brightening or enlightening
your evening, or morning,
or your afternoon, as such
efforts can sometimes, on
the best of days, yield. I
am, as always, indebted;
and yours truly, signing off.