It is a recent Saturday morning. My brother, Rick, and I lean close to inspect our progress. We cast a critical eye over the varnished wood bench and run our hands over the surface of it. We sand carefully, always in the direction of the grain. We wipe the horizontal cedar planks with tacky cloth and clean the black metal bolts and fasteners. My brother rolls on water-resistant stain while I use a brush to force the stain into small gaps. I joke to Rick that he was always the one that got to roll paint onto bedroom walls as part of our teenage chores while I was allotted the painstaking task of edging. Rick checks the texture of one of the planks, sighs, and admonishes himself when he spots shellac drips. I warn him about the danger of perfect becoming the enemy of good.
The city park trail is frequented with walkers and runners. Of the several dozen people passing by, no one fails to acknowledge us. Even the middle-aged couple, whose faces have an overlay of professed anonymity, nod in silent understanding of our undertaking. They know that what we are doing is not a chore; it is celebrating a life.
A thirty-something male wearing headphones runs by and calls out, “looking good!” We smile. A slight, petite woman walks up and tells us that she sits on the bench every day. Minutes later, a spry and confident senior calls out that she is happy that we are refinishing “Shirley’s bench.” Shirley’s bench? A total stranger knows that Shirley has a bench. Refinishing a wooden structure that is positioned above a rustling creek is how we demonstrate our love. And an entire community passing by us joins in our connection. Like us, loss is central to their humanity.
Two elementary school-aged children flit by, followed by their mothers who stride with responsible, steadfast gaits. The girls are curious about what we are doing. I explain that we are sanding and refinishing a bench that we placed in the park to honor our deceased mother. I tell them to come and sit on it some time, after it dries. They murmur their intention to do so and then continue down the path to the creek. I hear them remark to their mothers that our conversation was just so pleasant. Pleasant? Those girls have the eloquent vocabulary of a British matron serving afternoon tea while commenting on the weather.
Another passerby wanders up and says that she knows from the bronze metal marker that our mother loved dogs. A graceful, white-haired woman, whom I guess might refer to herself as ethnically Desi, engages us in conversation. She tells us that she moved to our town to live with her daughter and granddaughter. Our dialogue drifts into the importance of family, and we learn that though she lost her father when she was a child, she thinks about him every day. She pauses and mentions that she hopes that when she dies, her daughter will scatter her ashes in a large body of water and buy her a bench in the park. I tell her that I understand completely.
We finish our task and stand back to photograph our project. The wood glows, and our mother’s spirit beams. I position the glass vase of cheerful flowers plucked from my backyard so that their brightness contrasts with the earthy timbered boards.
We rub the dust off the brass monument marker and reflect on the sentiment it expresses:
Shirley Schweet
Beloved family member
A dog’s best friend