The Bench

 

Today the bench is empty showing its peeling paint and missing wood. No surprize. It has been up against the wall for decades beaten by sun, by wind, by rain and occasional (very).snow.

A generation of women have grown up meeting on the bench. From the days they met after school, planned their weddings, watched their babies play on the tiles before them. None of them left the village. They became mamies, old women, widows. Now they too are gone.

Young women of the village mostly have jobs either in the village or in the industrial center or outside. They are too busy to sit and talk. Many have moved away to bigger cities like Montpellier, Toulouse, Paris even.

Across the plaza is Bronzette, the latest restaurant and café. On the top of the building are faded blue letters spelling out La Fountaine, so weak it is hard to tell them from the beige stucco. Four different café owners had used the name La Fountaine, but the fountain had been taken away when the plaza was created from the main street through town. Traffic is now diverted around the center leaving the air pure.

A truck pulls up marked with the village logo.

Two men jump out and unscrew the feet of the bench and heft it into the back of the truck.

“I’m glad my grandmother didn’t live to see this,” one said.

The other nodded. “Life changes.”