There’s an empty bench across the way. Wooden, faded, warped. The lemon sun rays slice through it. Warmed shadows decorate the concrete beneath. Railroad tracks that tell stories upon stories. Laughter echoes from behind: ghosts of relationships formed, generations of discussions: people longing, longing to be heard, understood; discussions of people hoping to articulate painful, joyful truths.
There is a bench across the way. Empty now it seems, filled with words, phrases. Pain and love intersecting on those parallel lines.
This bench, my bench, yours, ours. Remains, stands–a vessel encompassing all of it, all of us.
