The Bench by the Sycamore Tree
Under the sprawling sycamore tree at the edge of the park stood a bench. It wasn't the fanciest bench—paint peeling, one wobbly armrest—but it had a view of the pond and just enough shade to make it inviting. That's where the child first saw the elderly figure sitting, hands clasped on a cane, watching the world go by.
The child, about nine years old, had just finished a haphazard soccer practice with friends. Seeing the person sitting alone, they wandered over. "Hi," the child said, plopping down with the unabashed confidence of youth. "Whatcha doing?"
The elder chuckled, a soft, raspy sound. "Watching ducks. And people. They're both entertaining."
The child nodded solemnly, as if this were the wisest observation ever made. "Ducks are funny. People too." Then, after a moment: "What games did you play when you were a kid?"
The elder leaned back, their weathered face softening. "Oh, let me think. We played hopscotch in the alley and marbles in the dirt. Sometimes we tied a string to an old tin can and pretended it was a phone. And when we were really lucky, we'd get enough kids together for hide-and-seek or stickball."
The child wrinkled their nose. "Tin can phone? Sounds weird."
"It was weird," the elder agreed with a grin. "But it worked, more or less. What about you? What do kids play now?"
"Mostly video games. And soccer. And tag, I guess. But video games are the best. My favorite is one where you get to build a city."
"Building cities, hmm? You might be a future architect. Or a mayor."
The child laughed. "Nah, mayors wear suits. Suits are boring."
That was how it began. The next week, the child came back after soccer practice, sitting on the bench as if they'd known the elder forever. "Hi again," they said. "Did you watch ducks today?"
"I did. They got into an argument over a crust of bread. Quite dramatic. And you?"
"Scored a goal! But mostly by accident."
"Accidental goals still count."
As weeks passed, their topics ranged wider. One rainy afternoon, the child asked, "What's the most important thing you've ever learned?"
The elder thought for a long moment. "That's a big question. I think… it's that people are like books. Everyone's story is different, and you'll never know the best parts if you don't open the cover and read."
The child frowned. "I don't really like books. Too many words."
The elder chuckled. "Then think of it this way: people are like video games. Each one has a different level to explore."
"Okay," the child said, brightening. "I like that better."
The seasons changed, and so did their conversations. In the fall, they talked about why leaves turned red and gold. In winter, they compared snowmen-building techniques. Spring brought questions about planting flowers and climbing trees.
One day in early summer, the child brought a notebook. "I want to write down the stuff you say," they explained. "For when you're not here someday."
The elder blinked, surprised, then smiled. "Well, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time. But you know what? If you remember, you don't need to write it down."
The child tilted their head. "What if I forget?"
"You won't forget the important parts. Trust me."
Over the years, the child grew taller, and the elder's cane grew heavier. Still, they met by the bench whenever they could. Their talks covered everything from how to whistle to what love feels like to why the world can be unfair.
One day, when the bench was a little wobblier and the elder's voice a little softer, the child—now not much of a child anymore—said, "You know, you were right. I didn't forget the important parts."
The elder smiled, their eyes crinkling. "I never doubted you."
And so, under the sycamore tree, they sat together as always, two friends bound not by age, but by the stories they had shared.
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"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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