The Bench by the Road
There’s a quiet bench near the edge of my street — weathered, wooden, and mostly ignored. For years, I walked past it without thinking. Just a bench. Old. Cracked. Forgotten. But one evening, after a long, draining day, I sat on it. No reason. Just tired legs and a heavy mind. That’s when I noticed the view. Not a grand one — just people going home, a woman balancing bread on her head, two boys laughing as they chased each other, the orange sky dipping behind the roofs. The ordinary, but it felt like peace. Every day after that, I started ending my walks at that bench. It became my thinking spot, my unwinding space, my tiny escape from everything. I began noticing things I never did before — how the neighborhood came alive at sunset, how the air shifted with evening prayers, how small moments held stories. One evening, a man in a faded cap sat next to me. We didn’t speak for five minutes. Then he said, “You come here a lot.” I nodded. He smiled, “Me too. That’s why the bench leans a li...