I’ve seen a lot in my time. Not that I have much time, mind you. I am, after all, a bench. Time moves differently for us, we simply *are*. But even in my stillness, I have observed countless lives unfold before me.
My story begins in a factory, a cacophony of saws and hammers. I was born of sturdy oak, carefully shaped and smoothed, then coated in a comforting shade of green. My first home was a bustling park, where I was placed beneath a majestic oak tree. Its leaves whispered secrets to me, and its shade protected me from the sun’s harsh gaze.
I was a young bench then, eager to make my mark on the world. My first encounters were with children, their laughter echoing through the park as they swung on the nearby swings and played tag. I learned the joy of simple pleasures, the thrill of a scraped knee, the comfort of a shared ice cream cone.
Then came the teenagers, their angst and dreams etched on my worn surface. I saw first love bloom, heard whispered confessions, and witnessed the bittersweet ache of goodbyes. The rumble of skateboards and the rhythmic thud of basketballs filled my days, reminding me of the boundless energy of youth.
As time passed, I became a confidante to the elderly, their stories a soothing melody in the rustle of leaves. I watched them reminisce about their younger days, their eyes twinkling with memories. They shared their wisdom, their regrets, and their hopes for the future.
Even the animals found solace in my presence. Birds built nests in the nearby bushes, their chirping a constant serenade. Squirrels scampered across my back, their tiny paws leaving indentations that told silent stories of their daily adventures.
The seasons changed, the years passed, and I remained, a silent observer, a weathered sentinel. I witnessed storms rage and sunbeams bathe the world in golden light. I felt the chill of winter and the warmth of summer, each season leaving its mark on my worn wood.
Now, as I sit here, my surface etched with countless lives, I am content. I may not have moved, but I have lived. I have borne the weight of laughter and tears, of joy and sorrow, of hope and despair. My story, like the story of every life, is a tapestry woven from countless threads. And as I watch the world go by, I know that my story will continue, forever intertwined with the stories of those who share this space with me.
For I am more than just a bench. I am Bartholomew, a silent witness to the tapestry of life.