Benches

The bench I sit on every morning was always empty before I came there. Sometimes I imagine that in the afternoon, long after I leave, a couple will sit here and talk about their still, innocent love. They kiss, both lost in their memories of the other, their hands intertwining before they leave to continue on with their lives. But in the morning, with dew glistening on every grass, a faint scent of the bench's Norwegian Wood is my only company. It always brings me back to our memories, once so close to the couple I always pictured here. I sit back with my feet barely brushing the dew off the grass, content in the feel of your presence with me, if only for a moment.

Your eyes glistened and reflected the night sky. As I held you, you shook with sadness.

That's my memory. For all the clear memories of imperfection that enthralled my every thought so long ago, only your eyes remain in my mind. They were black, but that night, a light hint of blue danced around in them. When you turned to me, eyes burning, I held you as we collapsed into one another, both our shirts stained dark with the trail of tears. You told me that night not to speak, just to hold your dark yellow dress. You held yourself close, sinking into me and your eyes held onto me.

Some dozen or so years later, the smell of Norwegian Wood still invades me just as easily as it did when we spent the night under our tree. The first time it hit me was days before two towers were struck down. It was a quiet day, absent of noise. We spent the day looking for an apartment for me to move into and our hopes were teetering on the very last of twenty or so one bedroom apartments that were located around our neighborhood, New Orleans, in 2001.

We strolled side by side to the last apartments and stopped on our way at our local Coffee Shop. you ordered your usual slice of cake along with some hot tea. It was a clear Sunday evening in the humid South near the end of April. Students studied nearby, chatting about music and the arts, anything to avoid math.

When you walked into the apartment, you were quiet and so was I. It was messy, unkempt. The landlord had long ago forgotten about this room in favor of the larger ones that he kept clean for his tenants. It was perfect, it smelled of Norwegian Wood.

"We need to get this place, it's only 5 minutes from my house and closer to our tree" you said. 'the smell is hitting me, Take ME it screams at me, I can't leave this place without it. I know that we'll always remember this place because it will be ours.' with a frown, I walked into the room, eyeing for any blemish, any unsightly area. Nothing. 'We'll paint it blue, together!' I must have made a funny face I guess because she burst into laughter and dragged me to the landlord, demanding a contract, knowing she had won. He made us wait outside, so we sat on a bench, holding hands as our soon to be landlord printed out the contract. Five minutes later and it was ours, the deal was done.