The man who lived on a bench
November 26th, 2009I was quite sure I had seen him some place before. the reddened face and the dirty beard, the loud manners; the whole scene seemed so much like a deja-vu.
His bench was the center of his world, house and workplace, holiday resort and family country house. People passing by didn’t even see him anymore, for the color of his ageless overalls was that of the park and the bench, brown and grey and orange and green.
He left last Tuesday. Without a warning, no farewell party, no note left behind him. He knew that his friends had died years ago and that the rest of the road he had to walk by himself. I sat on that bench today. It felt strange, a mixture of awkwardness and guilt: but he was gone for good. the wooden bench would go back to its more traditional even if transitory occupants.