Benched

When the trees turn green and the wind blows warmly down the river valley, I will most likely find myself back to this place.

I have sat at this bench many times, for many reasons. Reflection, boredom, escape. I've sat, watching fishermen situated under the bridge, hoping for the big Walleye. Maybe they sit in their boats for the same reason I sit at this park bench, using a fishing pole as a prop so as to not seem purposeless.

I watch as barges float by, impossibly silent and serene. They look unoccupied, save a solitary figure walking against the flow of the river as he makes his way to the cabin. He looks like he is going nowhere, as if he is strolling in the opposite direction on an automatic walkway. I figure it probably isn't a very good idea to jump up and down in one place on a moving barge, especially if standing by a large object. Would they fall over it or crash into it on the way down?

I have sat at this bench a few times, daring myself not to leave the bench until way after sundown. Maybe a argument or a bruised ego found me here, and this bench is as far away as I will come to ever running away from home. The chill of the coming evening and the sting of mosquitoes, plunging their needles into my skin tells me my passive-aggressive nature will not win out.

I am always alone at this park bench, except for the constant companion of high frequency ringing in my ears, not unlike the sound of the mosquitoes zeroing in to steal my blood. The river draws me in, not physically, but emotionally. It is the ultimate "road not taken". I watch the river forever flowing within the boundaries of its shores until it finds freedom in the wide expanse of the oceans.

In comparison to the river, I am a mere creek, twisting its way out of existence before it can ever merge with the sea.