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 little to the left. We’ve shaped it.”

That hit me. We shape the things we touch, even when we don’t realize it.

What the Bench Taught Me:

1. Stillness is powerful.
2. Simple moments matter.
3. We leave marks, even in silence.

So now, when life feels loud, I return to the bench by the road.

And somehow, it always has space for me.