Benched

A Bench to Call My Own (Globe and Mail, Feb 9, 2022)

My bench is in the little cemetery near my house. I sit quietly on it and take a break from the COVID craziness around me – a wooden bench underneath a gnarly old tree, surrounded by overgrown bushes and historic tombstones. Cemeteries are a place of memories, they say.

For almost two years now, this secluded little graveyard in the heart of the historic part of my hometown has been my refuge, my safe place – a resting spot on my daily walks, a small oasis with beautiful old trees and shrubs. I see the cemetery’s black, heavy iron gates as I turn the corner on my daily loop. Beyond the gates, a straight, narrow path leads through this small resting place for the dead and the living.

On both sides of the walkway, at a safe distance from each other – as if they had known about social distancing long before that was a thing – wooden benches offer a welcoming spot to stop and sit. I never counted them all – there are maybe 10 benches on each side of the path. Weathered grey wood, rough from the snow, sun and rain. Each one sits on heavy stone legs, covered with green moss. The fourth bench on the right – the one with the golden plaque that remembers a boy who died too young – is my bench.

I have had other benches before. Benches in gorgeous parks and on peaceful lakes. Benches to remember friends that have passed. The cold metal bench at my mother’s grave. The long wooden Ikea bench in our kitchen with my children sitting on it, having dinner. More food under the bench than in their bellies. One time we found a whole pork chop underneath it. But that’s a whole different story.

There is also that green bench on the other side of the world. My bench on Sydney’s Northern beaches, the place I called home for a while. My spot to have a coffee in the morning and watch the day unfold: the rising sun bathing my dark surroundings in a sea of brilliant colours. Yellows and purples, pink and orange. Tiny white-capped waves rippling toward the shore, clouds like cotton candy puffing along the sky. Morning haze, ocean glaze. The colour of the morning. The colour of the sea. The colour of the coffee standing next to me. I watched ocean-swimmers, beach-runners, sunrise-watchers and downward-doggers. And me on my raggedy green bench.

It was withered, paint peeling from years of ocean winds and the hot Australian sun. Heavy branches of a single pine tree hang above it, offering dappled shade from the breaking light. The never-ending roll of the calm, deep blue sea, the sound of waves gently breaking onto the shore would offer me peace. It calmed my mind, body and soul. Oblivious to the crazy times that were ahead for us.

And then COVID hit. I had to leave and return to Canada. One bench got replaced by another. They told me my bench on Australia’s shores got taped off. In other places, they dismantled them all together.

And so, gravestones replaced ocean views. The golden beach sand was exchanged for mossy green grass – tropical plants by maple trees. COVID locked us in. Locked us down.

The daily walk to the cemetery became my new routine. The bench in the graveyard my newfound friend. My COVID companion. My guardian of grief. Grief guardians are as abundant as grief itself. They can be found in the most unexpected places – we just have to look for them: a hot shower, a good book, a friend, a spot in the sunlight, art, pets, the change in the seasons. Or a bench.

I spent a whole year on that wooden bench in the old cemetery. Summer turned into fall and leaves changed from green to blazing red. Snow began falling, and the stony gravel path turned into a long icy track.

Day after day, I spent time sitting on my bench, watching the time pass. Resting, remembering, ruminating. Wondering, waiting, wishing. I’d watch people go by. Faces covered by masks, eyes smiling at me. I’d greet people. I’d talk to people. Sometimes I’d do all I could to avoid them.

I’d sit on my bench early in the morning or late at night. I’d see familiar faces, cemetery regulars: old couples, families, single people, lonely people like me. I’d see walkers, dog owners, groups of friends walking by, all of them trying to get out, trying to find some space, trying to breathe.

Winter turned into another spring. The tree above my bench sprouted tiny pink blossoms. More people returned to the cemetery: running, jogging, sitting on benches like me. Sometimes I arrived only to find my bench occupied by someone else. How could they? I’d choose another one close by. It didn’t quite feel the same.

One day I found a sign taped to my bench: CAREFUL WET PAINT! Once old and worn, my bench was suddenly covered by a coat of fresh paint. All shiny and new. Yet, a hundred coats of paint wouldn’t hide what this bench had seen. I hesitated for a moment. I looked around, unsure what to do. And then I turned, continued on my way, and left my bench behind me. Until the next lockdown.

Everybody needs a good bench in life – green, brown, withered, new. At the ocean, on a lake or in a cemetery. Alone or to be shared. A place to sit and rest. To listen to music and sing along. Or have a chat. A place to quietly contemplate what life is all about. A place to laugh, to cry and to smile. Or simply have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.