The other day I learned some sad news when I went on my favorite hike. At the viewpoint, the lovers bench was gone. Forever.
Back in May I wrote a post called The Bench Where Lovers Had Been.
I usually do the same hike every week, about two hours round-trip from my house. Toward the end of the uphill hike, there are countless switchbacks to really make you work for it.
But at the top of the hill is the greatest reward, a downtown Portland and Mount Hood view enjoyed from the comfort of a weathered bench. The lovers bench.
I played a little fiction game each time I went up there. I’d pick out a couple carved in the bench, then make up a boy meets girl story in my head before heading back home.
Over the past few months this bench even inspired me to consider writing my first short story. (Consider, meaning I haven’t started a damn thing. But I intended to after more quality time with the bench.)
Anyhoo, this was the bench then…
This is the bench now…
So many professions of love tattooed on the decrepit wood had vanished. This strange, smooth wood no longer held stories of romance, foolishness, and hope.
The fresh and shiny bench didn’t woo me at all. To tell you the truth, this guy was kind of a son of a
Yep, he was a real son of a bench.
I preferred the refreshingly true one from before, all genuine and battered, even if it was a splinter in the butt waiting to happen.
Reluctantly I sat down on the impostor and sipped my water in silence. The city continued on below, as if it never had a single thought about that bench on the hill above.
My fingers ran across the perfectly even surface, searching for the charming grooves that were once embedded in the wood. Craving those carvings of love.
Then I looked down at the brand new black armrest and smiled.
There it was…the very first one. And, a new lovers bench was born.