My park bench
Strange how it works. MW's response to my response to her first comment made me think of Fort Washington Park at about 173rd street and Fort Washington Avenue in Manhattan.
The park was my escape from the loneliness of my bedroom in a foster home when I was teenager, living in Washington Heights, and struggling with life. I went to the park to play chess with the old men and listen to their stories of the “old days.” I played single-wall handball and didn’t mind the sting from slapping the small, hard, black ball with my hand. I sat on a park bench to watch people parade past me.
Sometimes, I talked to strangers who wanted to share my bench.
Sometimes, I sat on a park bench and had long conversations with the bench. Why not? I talked to the window when I was very young and forced to stay in my bedroom in a foster home. I was still living in foster homes.
I’m 72 and sometimes I sit on a park bench at the north end of Owensboro, Kentucky and watch the flowing Ohio River, and talk to the bench. Of course, the dialogue is different. I am no longer struggling with my life.
There are those early morning hours when I need to talk and I sit with my imaginary park bench, flowing river, and I talk.
Am I crazy? Probably.