Food from Thought

A trail of glittering fragments drew the passerby’s brisk eyes to this bench where the hours rolled backwards. Tired weeds pushed their determined heads through the concrete cracks, too weary to reach any higher than this weatherworn bench. They had no reason for ambition. Competition doesn’t exist in the absence of time. Here, the rules were different. The paint draped in heavy layers, layers weighted with countless stories just like hers. Having no stories of its own, it seemed to cling to every sliver of life it was brought, reliving them at night within its aged grains until they became a part of it. Here was a new story to add to its folds. Maybe in the morning she would remember something pleasant; that is if the mirror hadn’t broken. Many faces had been held in that mirror. Many lively faces. Her sister’s husband gave it to his cherished bride on their honeymoon in Vienna. He told her it could never capture her beauty but maybe it could hold her memories for her so she could relive them on a darker day. She had taken it to heart, depositing in it reflections of her full life. Her life had allure and vivacity. It had the passion of their love and the innocent eyes of their flaxen-haired daughter. Now, though, no more memories of laughter and life would be added. Tragedy had struck and three stars had burned out. Now this brilliant lens had passed to this lonely lady with no memories of her own to keep her warm at night. She had thrived off of her sister’s crystallized memories, alone in her mundane days that rolled into years that rolled into ages. Somehow, she felt less hollow when she could look into this mirror and pretend the memories were hers. Somehow the emptiness didn’t echo as sharply. It didn’t pierce as swiftly.
Now she sat on this time-frozen bench. Her hollow eyes stared through the shattered glass panel, watching the weeds’ not growing.
An acorn fell from a branch above and invaded this sacred, separate, untouchable shrine. It bounced beside her off of the aged bench boards, cracking in half. A hollow clunk drew her attention from the shattered world she’d known. Her joints creaked as she turned to watch the catalyst roll across the path into the warm sunlight and disappear into the thick moist grass. She sat on a hollow bench. A bench that had never moved. Carvings of love and memories tattooed its shell, but the inside had been eaten away by time. Hope for the bench was lost. Even here where time was ignored, it took its toll.
She looked back at the shards clutched in her hands. Each one twinkled with tempting tales of exotic lives that she had never lived. She had never lived. Cradling this cracked crutch, she slowly placed it beside her on the hollow bench and pulled herself up to her feet. Each inch ached with age, but she set out across the path, aching more to soak up the smooth sunrays. Feeling this heaven on her fragile face, she turned slowly to see her old bench with her old mirror. It seemed to sit back in the shadows like a sullen child. Satisfied, she set off, step by purposeful step, across the field. Maybe it was not too late for her. Maybe she wasn’t past hope. Maybe he could still make a memory of her own tonight. Maybe in the morning, she wouldn’t be hollow.