The Bench

It's not the same bench
But in the same spot
Place for reflection
And tranquil thought

Rebuilt every other generation
Faithful to its original design
Some years in need of rejuvenation
Worn rough from inclement weather

Other years sanded
Brand new
Silky smooth,
Thick with varnish

I remember
When I sat there
My small young hands
Entwined with my grandfather's
His, knurled and bent

When he left
My mother told me she heard
His whispers in the wind
I am free, I can breathe again

And when she left
I heard
Her gentle murmuring in the breeze
I am free, I can breathe again

The bench marked
our place in the forest
A sanctuary for reflection and rest
Memories of those whom I cherish

My hands brush
against the rough surface
A splinter pierces my thumb
Breaking me from my reverie

I stare at my hands
Calloused and knurled now
I take comfort this is the place
Where I am free to breathe again