the bench of tears

Sitting in a shaded 3 bench park boarded by an open gate- an elderly, white haired man inched into view. He slowly stepped his way foot by foot over the raised bar that hung the  gate a crouched cats height from the weathered brick walkway.  He caught me in his view and froze as if I had tried to sneak his daughter in past her curfew; but I assumed  I was sitting in his seat.  A mustard coloured bench, torn and fretted exposing its wood interior mixed amongst a ménage of hues reminiscent of a damp residue clinging to the leaves of a forest in late fall.  He barred the incline gently and with eyes glued to his journey-worn feet- he made his mark a face-plant away from I. We once again shared eyes- when a toothless smile  smeared his pruning flesh and he picked up a water bottle  resting bench-side and laughed after making its acquaintance- I followed suit shooting a gumming smile as if I’d aimed with arrow. He took a newspaper, like they always do, and placed it as a seat cover not to stain his washer-worn trousers. I sat a bench behind him as he swung his hand to scratch his glistening brow. His bent fingers, pawing through his buzzed white sprouts threw me into a fond relapse of childhood;

I’m sitting tableside while my
Grandma cooks toast over an
Open stove-top flame- I don’t
Know how she did it but I’ve
Never tasted a better piece of
Toast in my whole darn life and
I still haven’t to this day. As her
Aged hands lay the toast on my
Plate- I think how her wrinkles,
moles, and marks never bothered
me, because she is my grandma
and I love her. Now with grandpa-
all sitting behind our plates piled
with mounds of mashed potatoes,
cream corn, and a gravy masked
meat; Pa and I set out on a race
 to devour or meal first. I don’t
 recall how this tradition started
but I hold it close to my heart.
Of course grandpa always let
me win; so what seems like a
lightning bolt of quickness our
meal is done and I sit at the
table for nana to finish the dishes
so we can play cards. Pa would
head to the back room to watch
the tele; loafing on his worn couch in
his work-worn slacks and smoke
his cigarettes. Finally nana finished
the dishes and dealt out the cards-
whether crazy 8’s, kings in the corner,
or gin- we’d laugh and play as her
cigarettes burned down to the filter.
After a couple hours id call on my
Grandpa to go to his legion-like
basement to play darts. Walking down
The creaking J-shaped staircase to
The cool cement floor was always my
favourite part of my visit. The basement
Was in the shape of a torpedo with a root
cellar and tool-shop to the left of the stairs.
I’d always mess around with grandpa’s vice
Grip- locking blocks of wood between its firm
Hands and furiously taking saw to it; my grandpa
Always lended guidance and assisted me until the
air was filled with dust and the nub smacked
the cold ground. The shiny metallic heating ducks
 that tunnelled along the ceiling were home to chalk
etchings of dates, names and high scores. Darts
was the main attraction; even at my young age I
managed to have a few scores engraved amongst
the old timers. We’d spend hours down there; throwing
darts and busting each other on missed throws
and low scores. Then we’d pull a couple wooden chairs
 to this circular table and tell me stories about
World-War II and his time in the navy.

“We were commissioned off the coast in Halifax and were sent to go check out a location that was said to be infiltrated with German U-boats; we set out but had to return to refuel and another ship was sent out in our place and ended getting blown out of the water- no survivors”

I was always in awe of the story when I was a wee one and it stuck with me to this day. He gave me his oil slick WWII knife; two-sided, one with, now dull blade; the other with an aged stake.

As I faded in and out of trance- I heard my grandfathers voice “I’m right here with you, you little bugger”. The tears began to stream down my humid cheeks (and as the white haired man entered my life he just as quickly disappeared). As I opened my eyes upon hearing the words from my grandfather- he rose from the bench and gently crept past the raised gate till he was out of view. Sometimes occurrences sneak up on you in many forms that piece together the importances that have pieced together who we are.  This beautiful occurrence helped dig up a fond memory that I have thrown many shovel loads over. It is important never to forget where one comes from and I must give thanks to that toothless angel that came and graced one of the three benches.
 6/29/2009