View From the Bench

by Isabel Gates

Narrator
For 47 minutes, a poet, a grandmother and an accountant
Sat on a bus bench together without saying a word
Not one of them noticed the cloverleaf clouds
The water spider doing backstrokes in a puddle
Or heard the song sparrows trilling
Not one of them took in the people beside them
The only thing spinning in those moments was their thoughts

The Poet scribbled his down
There are some questions that weigh almost nothing
Until I try to lift them out of my heart
My inner child is still on tiptoe
Waiting for answers
Like, how important is it to “be me?”
Does the universe require it?
Or suffer from it?
Is self-awareness a gift?
Or a curse?
What is the barometer of human worth?
And what does having a consciousness
Do for our planet?

I get some of the answers when I dream
But like moonlight on the run from daybreak
They dissolve as I get out of bed
If I could stay asleep, I’d know it all
You’d think there would be wise people around somewhere to ask
This culture’s template of success
Is defined by clicks and follows, saves and shares
People have run out of the words that matter
It appears I have too.

When is this damn bus going to come?

The Grandmother mumbled her thoughts to herself
Did I remember to take my Humira yesterday?
How hooded my eyes are getting
And my jowls—when did they get so heavy?
Did I just say that out loud?
Is that crow shaking his head at me?
“You smell like an old lady today, Grams”
That cheeky boy had the nerve to say
Why? Because I use lavender soap?
I once stood tall, kid, I should’ve said
I was strong
And funny
All my parts worked
I meant something
These days I feel like your tower of Jenga blocks
Time is always pushing parts of me to the floor
And the parts still standing are wobbly

I wonder
If I should wake up tomorrow morning with
The good health I didn’t appreciate back in the day
Would people SEE me again
Not look through me?

What does it matter anyway?
Nothing we are given in life gets to stay
Our favorite people
Our best memories
The way we looked on our wedding day
My Norman

Perhaps I won’t get on the bus when it finally comes
What is the point when nobody is waiting for you?

The Accountant Thought of His Paintings
Will anyone come tonight?
And if they do, will they look up
When I walk into the gallery?
Will they appreciate my art?
Its message?
Or will they see it and slip out the back
Without bothering to tell me why?

Do they know I’ve quit my job for this?
Labored to create beauty
In a culture that only trusts pain
One moment people are praising the season’s color
The next, they are raking it into bags
This secret dream of mine to be a Maker
Do they know my hands paint while I sleep?
In crowds, my eyes linger
On faces
On expressions
On gestures
Hoping they will imprint themselves
On my brush
That I might lift my voice
In the Maker’s chorus too

Their impending judgment is deafening
What if there’s no room on the palette for my colors
What then will my future be?

He painted a red light in his mind
The only quiet place left.

Maybe I could get a job as a foster parent for pets

Narrator
On that bench, their fears overwhelmed them
The meaning of life
Woes of aging
Impending defeat

Trapped in the silence between them
Their thoughts languished as if theirs alone
The questions highest on each of their minds were the same:
Does anyone see me? Does God?

A part of them expected the universe
To hear their distress and
Send a thunderstorm
In their minds,
That was their life

God sent something better

An off-leash golden retriever ran up to them
Wiggling and wagging
And licking them each in turn
Repeating its rounds
Again, and again
Its beautiful, twitchy hugs
Making them laugh aloud
While calls of Max!
Were entirely ignored by the dog

When he finally left them
The poet, grandmother, and artist
Still beaming widely
Began to talk
It wasn’t long before they realized
They weren’t alone at all.