The Bench by the Lake
"The Bench by the Lake" There’s an old wooden bench by the lake near my childhood home. Weathered by time, its once-smooth surface is now rough with memories—scratches, initials, and faded scribbles left by passersby. To most people, it’s just a bench. To me, it’s where my story began. I first sat there on a quiet autumn afternoon, overwhelmed by questions life didn’t seem ready to answer. I was caught between who I was and who I wanted to become. The lake was still. The trees whispered with the breeze. And for the first time, I listened—not just to the world, but to myself. A little boy walked by, holding a red balloon. He waved at me, smiling without reason, and skipped ahead. That simple moment taught me something I never read in any book: life is made of small, beautiful things. Moments that don’t ask for permission to happen. They just do. Since then, I’ve gone back to that bench many times—when I was happy, when I was lost, when I needed to remember who I am. Each visi...