Creative Writing "The Park Bench"

There is a magical park bench in the world that, if you sit on it, miraculous things will happen. You see it all the time in the movies – someone, while searching for a lost love, sits on a nearby park bench and there, reading a newspaper with a nonchalant expression on his face, is that misplaced sweetheart. Or, if someone is going through a particularly rough time and decides to take a walk in the park, they end up sitting on that bench to have a good cry and there, next to them, is an angelic stranger who gives them some words of wisdom. The park bench hops locations, of course, making sure to get in miracle after miracle all over the world.

I found this park bench – or, I should say, it found me – on Christmas Eve, 2039.

My name is Patricia Whittle, I'm seventy years old and I was a Holiday Curmudgeon. A Humbug. A Scrooge. A Horrible Old Grinch.

To me, Christmas was a chore, a day of screaming, greedy little children, gaudy decorations, and maudlin, awful songs set to repeat eternally in shopping malls. In my home, where my entire family – children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters, everyone – thought to gather on Christmas Eve despite my pleas otherwise, things were just too awful for me to stick around. So, to escape the din, I went for a brisk, quiet walk.

Being seventy years old, though, my walk turned to a crawl after about ten minutes, and then finally a stop when I reached the park bench.

The bench was situated in the middle of two trees strung with lights, facing a shopping center covered in wreathes and ribbons and glittery streamers. I could hear that horrid music, faintly, drifting across the quiet street, and if it weren't for my aching old feet and my tired old lungs, I probably would've gotten up and found a bench more suited to my grumpy old tastes.

"That's pretty," I heard a voice say beside me, and I looked over to see a small figure sitting next to me.

She was about ten years old, and wearing a scarf and coat that looked downright anachronistic compared to the glossy, swishy, polyester winter wear that young people wore these days.

"The lights, I mean," she added. "Don't you think they're pretty, ma'am?"

She looked at me innocently, and I glared back at her.

"They're horrible," I said, "They hurt my eyes. The blinking ones, especially."

She nodded, but her eyes narrowed with doubt. She picked at a bright red ribbon that had been tied to the back of the park bench.

"Do you like ribbons?" she asked.

"Ribbons are pointless frivolity."

The little girl was thoughtfully silent.

"What about carols. You like carols, don't you?"

"Heavens, no! Awful things. They make my ears bleed."

The girl sighed.

"But you like gifts, don't you?" She looked up, eyebrows knitted in concerned concentration.

"Nuisances. No one is ever happy with what they get. It's all greed."

"I like the cold."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, don't even get me started on the cold!"

She looked away, chewing on her lip ponderously, and after a few moments she turned back, a severe look in her eyes.

"I think you're lying," she said, with all the honesty of a child, "I think you love the lights because they remind you of the stars, and you love the ribbons because they make it seem like the entire world is a gift. You love carols because they make you think of angels, and you love gifts because you love that look on peoples' faces when you get them exactly what they wanted. You love the cold, too. You love wrapping up in a scarf and a jacket, drinking hot chocolate by the fire and being cold just so you can be warm again. You like that feeling around the holidays, when it seems like there's this bright spot in your heart where all your happiness is, and you just want to share it with the world, and your family, and your friends in as many ways as you can."

I was quiet, thoughtful, looking at the little girl with the clothes that seemed familiar, brown eyes, and long brown hair tied back with a bright red ribbon. I knew her eyes would need glasses as time went on, and her hair would later be kept short, and turn gray with age.

"What's your name?" I asked her.

"Patty," she said. She still sounded hurt, her eyes brimming with tears as she doubtlessly fretted about the old grouch she'd one day become.

"I'm not lying, Patty," I said, bitterness replaced with wonder and a need to reassure. "I don't know how, but… I'd just… forgotten."

Like I'd forgotten that I used to go by a name like Patty. Such a young name, not me at all.

Now, though, I remembered. I remembered lights-as-stars, I remembered ribbons, gifts, and frosty weather. I remembered that bright spot of happiness in my heart that had faded out, but as I remembered, was coming to life once again.

I stared at Patricia Whittle, age ten, a spirit of Christmas from 1979 who I'd misplaced during all the life I'd lived since then.

Patty pulled the red ribbon from her hair and tied it around my wrist in a large bow. It seemed to glow in the brilliance of the white Christmas lights all around me.

"So you don't forget again," she explained, and kissed me on the cheek. There was a soft gust of cold wind, and she was gone.

"I won't," I said to the night, and I looked up to see the brightest star in the sky, blazing away like the newfound hope inside my heart.

I smiled, an echo of the little girl I'd found again, with the help of a mysteriously magical park bench, and I started on my way back home.