madelynwritesalone

[madelynwritesalone]

The View From My Bench

     The bench was made of old oak wood and colored with a dark cherry stain. Whenever I shifted my weight, I heard the creaking sound of weak moldy wood underneath me. The decaying, rust-covered metal that made up the legs used to be a beautiful, shiny shade of black. Now the iron was turning to ugly shades of red and green. Weeds were growing up the legs of the bench and around the wood. It seemed as if they were the only ones holding the bench together. The bench smelled of mold and rotting wood, but I still came back to it with fondness. I spent much of my childhood on this bench, alone, with friends, just letting my imagination run wild.

     I would imagine tiny little fairies dancing around in the morning sunlight as it filtered through all the leaves, or two-foot-tall garden gnomes swimming in the mossy pond, jumping from lily pad to lily pad, splashing the green-tinted water all over each other. Some days I wouldn't imagine anything. I'd just watch the beautiful swans swim in the pond, searching for patterns in their movement. It was almost as if they were dancing with each other, like some sort of synchronized swimming routine. The swans still live here, and though it's been over 20 years since I've visited, I like to imagine that they're the same ones from my childhood.

     The rough grey hardwood of the old weeping willow tree grew towards the sky, towering above the rest of the trees. The silver-tinted green leaves cascaded down from the branches, and birds of all colors were singing from the canopy. Their songs were still the same ones they sang to me as a child. My favorite birds were the blue ones, with the orange on their bellies. Blue was, and still is, my favorite color. I had a large collection of blue dresses as a child. Now I wear mostly sweaters, today a blue cashmere sweater with a knit pattern on the front. My previously white shoes are covered in mud now from the walk out here. I knew it was going to take hours to scrub the dirt off, so I got up off the bench and started the long walk back to my car.

[madelynwritesalone]

The Floral Chair

     The room was small and cramped. When I entered it, there was a faint scent of roses with an even fainter hint of citrus. It reminded me of the perfume my grandmother wore when she visited for the holidays. In the center of the room, there was a dusty pink chair with a floral print. A beige blanket was draped over the chair, and two floral pillows colored in different shades of tan. A stack of old books sat balanced atop them. One book that caught my eye was Little Red Riding Hood, one of my favorite books from my childhood. I remember lying in my bed as a toddler, all tucked in and comfy, and having my mother read it to me.

    Surrounding the chair were old sculptures and paintings that my father had collected over the years. He was always taking any chance he could get for new art to put in the house. They always ended up in the attic after a while, though, when he found a new one to go in its place. There was a bronze sculpture shaped like a ball of rubber bands on the edge of the coffee table. I remembered staring at it on the mantle in the living room, just wondering what the point of such a thing would be. I still don't understand it to this day.

    On the antique wooden coffee table, next to the sculpture, there was an old lamp that used to be in my bedroom, just collecting dust like everything else in this attic. The lamp shade was pink floral, but a drastically different shade to the chair. It had pink gems dangling from the rim of it when it was new, but now most of them have fallen off now. The white base of the lamp was cracked and wobbly. I would be astonished if that old lamp still worked, it looked like it would blow up if it was turned on ever again.