It’s a place to sit and contemplate, to dwell on memories of loved ones and days gone by. But more that, the handmade wooden bench in the garden is a symbol of the healing power of love
A bench appeared in our garden a few days ago. When my husband, B, showed it to me, I stared at it for a while, sat on it, spoke to him about it, and then went inside, face wet with tears.
“It’s a bench!” I told the kids when they asked what was wrong. Thinking I’d finally gone loopy, they probed a bit more. “It’s a bench for Aunty Bee and Grandpa!” I elaborated. They understood immediately.
That bench says “love” to me, and, I’d argue, has changed something in me.
My sister, or “Aunty Bee” to Kids 1 to 3, has been dead for five years, and my dad for eight months shy of that. I remember Kid 2 saying after they’d died that she had been worried that I would change somehow. She was right to be worried, although I hope she’s been spared the brunt of it. I did change, by becoming a sadder version of myself.
The overwhelming feeling has been that my life is somehow diminished without them. While grief is no longer the brutal force it was soon after their deaths, it’s a persistent creature, hanging around in the wings the way it does, and waiting to manifest at inconvenient times.
I expressed this to B a few weeks ago: “I don’t know what I need,” I told him. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
There’s no fixing grief, I realise. It’s just there, like an unwanted companion, some days more bothersome than others. But I knew I needed a change – in my thought patterns or in my behaviour, or in both at the same time.
I spoke and B listened, and then we went about our lives. A few days ago, he showed me the bench. Elegant in design, and created from planks he had collected, this was an impressive feat for someone who has been teaching himself woodwork. It’s sturdy and comfortable, and pleasant to look at. But it was the story around it that impressed me more than anything.
“You told me you were sad,” he explained, “and it occurred to me that you had nowhere to go to remember them”. He’d gone to the graveyard nearby and spoken to the caretaker, who had agreed to allow us to place a bench wherever we wanted. He’d set about building the bench without my knowledge, and then stored it in our neighbours’ garden while he varnished it.
He’d listened to me, and then created something that would help bring about a change.
The bench is still in our garden, yet to be moved to the graveyard. I haven’t decided yet whether I want it there, or whether it should remain at home. Wherever it sits, though, that bench signifies an immense amount of love to me.
I sat on it this morning, drinking my coffee. Grief sat beside me, quieter and less insistent than usual. B’s love hasn’t changed everything, as the ‘80s Climie Fisher song claims it does, but there’s no question that it’s caused a shift towards a more content me.
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