Hidden in plain sight

A gentle breeze so soft that it is seen rather than felt in the autumn air, flowers nodding in the hedges, leaves releasing their foothold and drifting to the ground; there’s a stubborn fog that’s turning buildings into movie-set facades, their angles concealed along with the depths within. The headlights of cars appear as soon as they are gone, slowly snaking into the grey expanse. Even the waves just visible on a truncated horizon slap themselves down in silence, a rhythm that can only be imagined.

On the path, a small bench has been placed, a careless rockery on either side. Into the wood, a small plaque has been screwed, its brass tarnished and dun. If you run your fingertips across the words, you’ll feel a silenced story come to view, if only for a moment: a dear relative, much loved – now gone –adored this spot, apparently, and this seat is to remember them.

Despite the picturesque placement of this memorial, it sees far more than the peaceful trajectory of seasons. An addict entered a final, dreamless sleep here just weeks ago, in exactly the same place where a child was conceived days later, in a breathless, hurried coupling that finished in giggles and hurried straightening of clothes. Children have climbed on it, cramming old sweet papers into its cracks, and an ancient couple use it every week as a resting spot along their stoop-shouldered journey.

When the path is empty, especially just before dawn and in the last light of the day, animals and birds twitch their way across the seat, squirrels with their scraps and fretful rubbing of paws and paranoid robins, sparrows and thrushes dart around, one eye fixated on their surroundings, jerky, clockwork motions.

Dogs come and go, lifting their legs and claiming each other’s territory in a meaningless cycle. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. And again, on their return.

Once a year a representative of the local council comes past with a clipboard, inspecting the bench for its structural integrity. He ticks off a box, gives the panels a caring slap and moves on, whistling something his father before him used to whistle, a tune picked up in the carefree seasons after the war.

The fog has lifted, now, and the sun is out.

In the distance, a family can be heard, taking a walk. Their shoes are scuffing the path and they are laughing intermittently.  They come into view, hurry past and barely spare a glance for this bench, tucked into its careless rockery.