Bench

It's just an old bench. Myra Elias passes it almost daily on the way to her school librarian job in a nearby town. She may not look directly at it, and that's fine. Was it really a whole decade ago now, when she sat there Saturdays with her wonderful grandpa, who she called "Saba", not uncommon in "gift of G-d" Netanya, Israel, where many old Sephardim families resided. She sat with her Saba and listened to his funny stories, which always followed after some Torah reading. Myra remembers sometimes drifting off, her grandpa's soothing, lyrical voice continuing as she closed her eyes, the blissful afternoon feeling so peaceful and dreamlike. The long, ornate bench was unusual in every way, and in these charged thoughts so intermingled with feelings of sadness- she missed him so painfully- that driving by each time, she held her gaze ahead forcefully to the road, until well down the street, memories past. But, like her bittersweet recollecting, Myra Elias is glad the old bench is still there.