Day after day he sat the same way on the same bench wearing the same clothes.  The sun’s rays warmed him at the moment, but he had often experienced cold, cloudy days that made him feel clammy to the touch.  The cool breezes of spring and fall were probably his favorite.  More people stopped to say hello on those days and birds landed on him chirping their delight in the weather.

During this beautiful spring day many people were around.  Something big was happening in the concert hall near his bench.  Girls of all ages, dressed in sequined dance costumes, were beginning to arrive.  Every hair on their heads was glued down with the stickiest hairspray they could find.  Their delicate facial features were strangely distorted by the heavy make-up necessary for the bright lights of the big stage.

The girls entered the concert hall to prepare for the start of the dance recital.  Parents, siblings, and other family members and friends, mingled outside awaiting word to enter and take their seats.  As the adults talked, the children played close by.  Some children were curious about the man on the bench and went over to get a closer look.  They touched his hand and put their noses up against his, looking into his eyes.  They sat on his lap and climbed on his shoulders but he never said a word or moved, allowing them to have their fun.

The announcement came for all to take their seats inside to watch the dances that the girls had practiced for months.  As parents called to their little ones, they reluctantly stopped playing.  “We’ll come back later when the recital is over,” they assured each other as they ran toward the recital hall.

One young man, in his late teens, remained near the quiet, still man sitting on the bench.  He had watched as the children played with the man and wondered what had attracted them to do so, after all, he had not responded to them.  “Who are you?” the teenager asked aloud knowing that the man wouldn’t answer.   He neared the man and touched his arm.  It was warm.  The mid-day sun had been beating down on it for a while as the shade from the tree behind him had retreated.  The man on the bench was leaning forward and looking to his left.  What could have captured his attention there that he could so easily ignore the children and now the young man? 

The teenage boy sat next to him.  He studied him carefully for a few moments and gave him a name, Frank.  “Hi, Frank. How are you?” he asked.  No answer came. 0 Comments on The Man on the Bench as of 1/1/1900