Benchmark

A man remembers a life of real love - not the kind you see in movies.

The old man arrived in the morning, and he sat with his coffee. The air was crisp and fresh, and the lake before him was untouched, except for the morning fog, which floated peacefully above it. The man watched the lake, anticipating it’s occasional ripples. The bench beneath him was colder than he last remembered. The spot next to him was emptier.

There was no wind. The trees were still and strong; the silence commanded full attention, dictating such harsh policies that not a single whisper defied its wishes. A butterfly flitted over the lake, making the man smile with only his lips. It was a wooden bench that he sat on, gilded with the stems and leaves of many plants, worn by age, with wrinkles very much like the ones on his face.

When the silence was finally broken, it was by a chorus of young birds. Their voices bounce across the lake, singing a broken, intertwining lament. It had a familiar, lilting feel, like an old-fashioned waltz.

---

She’d always had golden hair, but at that time it was cut short. The sun on her face reflected in her blue eyes and made her cheeks glow.  They had met a few times before. He sat about a foot away from her on the bench, fidgeting, hesitating, until she stretched over to place her hand on his.  The butterflies that flew across the lake were his heart, fluttering in nervousness, but soaring; they were free and lonely, until snatched by a net with the company of their loving captors; they were pure and beautiful, but with veins in their wings, cracking the picture, creating abstract art; they were excited, flying not too high above the lake, taking in the potential of today.  When she laughed, the birds were jealous, for she hadn’t even begun to sing and her voice was sweeter than theirs would ever be. As he leaned in towards her, he smelled laundry soap and a hint of lilac; he could feel her hair tickling his cheek, and he admired the small, circular birthmark just below her left eye.

A year later, he waited at the bench. When she arrived, his breath caught in his throat, anxious and excited. The world around him disappeared. She wore a knee-length, blue skirt and a white blouse. Her black mary janes clicked on the pavement of the sidewalk. The air of unfamiliarity gone, she stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around him. She had let her hair grow out a bit, but her smile was the same. Her bright blue eyes had the same sparkle and she smelled of everything he loved. The ring was beautifully heavy in his coat pocket, as he descended to his knee.

Her eyes welled up with tears of sheer happiness and emotion, and she jumped in excitement. He stood and held her in his arms, with his mouth pressed against her forehead in a light, constant kiss. Neither of them said anything, but the silence resonated with the glowing warmth of love and comfort.

---

From then on, the two were inseparable. The love they shared was so strong that to lose one or the other was like separating a limb from the body. However, in their older years, she became very sick. The man had barely blinked, and she had slipped from his fingers. He tried to grasp the thin air, remembering her, alone by the lake. The man stood, slowly, holding the bench tightly with shaky fingers. A summer day had begun on the lake, the same as it always had been. As he was walking away, he noticed a young boy with light hair. The man paused and turned to watch the teenager approach the bench. The young man walked to the edge of the lake and plucked a flower from the damp earth. He sniffed it briefly and sat on the bench, seeming to buzz with anticipation. The old man turned away, shaking his head. He couldn’t help but smile, a true smile. Love lives on.