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He sat in the middle, not to “exclude” as his body language friends might claim, but because the middle was where he’d always sat. His mother would sit on the right side of the bench; he would stand before her, enduring her requisite lectures on playground etiquette and safety, always seeing the old man sitting to his mother’s left, never looking directly at his mother or the man, his mind already on the dizzying swings, weight shifting from one foot to the other as she droned on, until she would finally grant his release. He always politely greeted the old man as he charged into his business of playing, even though the stranger never said a word to either him or his mother and indeed, never seemed to leave his seat on the bench. When his mother told him to rest, he would sit between the two adults until it was time to go home, or on rare and delightful occasions return for a final round with all the playground offered.

He sat now, arms draped over the weathered green back of the bench, remembering how he used to impatiently swing his legs, supposedly resting while his mother read and the old man stared in silence. From this familiar position he recalled filling his rest time with monologues directed toward the man on his left. The man never acknowledged him, never even glanced his way; with no reproof the boy saw no reason not to recount each day’s events to his silent companion.

Earliest memories were fleeting and weak: misty vignettes blending into a pleasant though indistinct whole. He had been born and raised in this town, close to this park, and knew his mother brought him here to play as soon as he could walk the short distance from their home. From the first warm days of spring until well into Indian Summer they would stroll almost daily to what quickly became known as “his” playground. She used to push his swing, and spin the merry-go-round for him; he still remembered his first solo up and down the slide. How he had bragged to his father that afternoon! Thinking back, he could not find an image that contained the old man on the bench until his last summer, the one before school.

He suddenly stood up, then glanced to both sides to see if anyone had witnessed his seemingly panic-stricken movement; he was alone. Aimlessly walking, scuffing his feet in patches of dirt, he drifted into the memories of his last months in this town. Beginning with a procession of unfamiliar faces through his home, followed by a trip to a new town where he and his parents wandered through strange houses, he relived the final months of his life in his first hometown. When he finally began to understand that his family was moving, relocating, he asked his mother if they would still go to his playground after they moved. She initially sidestepped the question and reminded him that once he started school, became a big boy with exciting important homework and lots of new friends and birthday parties and field trips, he really wouldn’t have time to go to his playground. He asked if he would be in school every day and she explained no, he would be home on Saturday and Sunday and would not go to school at all every summer. Can we go back to my playground next summer, he had asked, and she of course said yes, meaning no.

Stopping at the back of the slide, he peered over the top step and down the silver highway to the ground miles below. He marveled at the stunning courage he’d shown on his first lone climb and descent. All grown up now and still taking chances, he thought. Turning to face the bench, he quickly lost himself in reverie once again.

The old man still bothered him. He knew now he had returned to his park not to reminisce with his wood and steel playmates, but to lend substance to his recurrent vision of the stranger on the bench. Thirty summers had come and gone since he had last been here, thirty years of going and growing without forgetting his last days with his silent friend. He had come to regard the man as a playground fixture, rigid and silent like the slide long since conquered, yet reassuring like the chains of the swing. He had informed his stoic friend of his impending departure in a matter-of-fact manner, assured him they would not be leaving soon, and would certainly return next summer to sit with him on the old man’s bench. He’d conceded possession of this bench - in “his” playground - to the one who always sat on its left end.

He felt strangely anxious now, and resumed his shuffling stroll in an effort to restore calm to himself. Knowing where his thoughts were leading offered no comfort; the walk among the cold steel structures became an ordeal, a convoluted gauntlet with the bench as its terminus. His persistent memories now held sway; he would be little more than a spectator at his own struggle. Yielding, he headed back to the bench.

If he had been less self-conscious he might have proceeded to converse with himself aloud; instead he stopped a few feet before the old man’s seat, and loosed the flood in his head.

The world swam before his closed eyes and he felt as if he were falling in a dream, with no sudden wakening ahead to end his plunge. Abruptly he was sitting beside the old man again, and he knew this was his last trip to his playground. The boy next to the old man, armed with the optimism and naiveté of a six-year-old, fully expected to return the next summer to see his playground and friend; his mother had said so. Nevertheless today was different, and he wanted to be sure the man on the bench with him was prepared for his temporary absence. After reiterating the causes for his time away the boy told the old man how much he would miss him this winter, and how it would be different from other winters because he would be far away this time and not just down the street, and how his mother had promised they would be back next summer because she knew this was his playground and he would want to see his old friend again, and as the boy promised to come back, the man slowly turned to face him. The boy lapsed into a stunned silence.

They remained thus, looking into each other’s eyes, until the boy heard his mother get up, tell him it was time to go home, and begin to walk away. Flustered, he started to tell the old man goodbye, heard his name called with a touch of sternness, and hesitantly climbed off the bench to answer her call. He walked away, slowly at first, with many long glances back to the old man still looking into his six-year-old eyes; he could clearly see the man watching their receding figures until the boy and his mother turned the corner. He never saw him again.

The young man blinked, shook his head, and swallowed hard. I’m sorry, he said. I know I promised, but I never forgot.

He sat down on the left end of the bench, and wished it could be summer again.

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