The Bench on the Beach

My long-suffering and beleaguered husband, used to my eruptions when something didn’t go my way, or at least the way I’d planned, looked up.“My bench, you know, the one I mean — the one on the beach. There,” I pointed in the general direction. We’ve been coming to Westport Marina in Upstate New York for three years. An old wooden bench stood on the adjacent lawn in Ballard Park, close to the beach. I’ve spent many hours looking out over Lake Champlain, two dogs at my feet or one at my feet and one on my lap. I’ve watched boats come and go, watched the lake when the wind whipped up waves worthy of an ocean, and I’ve watched millpond water.

I’ve watched children play in the sand and adults doing some strange exercise called Tai-Chi on the low concrete slab where the dinghies tie up when the slab is not submerged. I’ve seen dogs tear down the hill past my bench to splash wildly in the water, mouths wide open, joy personified while owners come tearing after them yelling. And there have been times when there is no one. The beach would be mine. And I would think and allow my mind to travel into the past, many years back. I’d dig up old memories. Sometimes I’d smile, and sometimes I’d wipe away a tear.

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