THE BENCH by Anita Goodfellow (2nd place, Flash, May24)

You place me in the shade of a chestnut tree where I’ll be protected from the fierce sun and the worst of the rain. Running your hands over my smooth back you breathe in the earthy smell of oak. I’m your favourite wedding present.

I look out over a manicured lawn. Daisies ring my legs in uneven circles and on dark summer evenings cicadas sing.

We fall into a habit you and I. Each morning you sit with me, drink your coffee and nibble a biscuit. Before leaving, you brush the crumbs from my arm onto the ground where ants will feast later.

As the days shorten you start to feel different – heavier, fuller.

I’ve been pulled out from under the tree and you lean against my sturdy frame, raising your face to the warmth.

The next morning I wait, but you don’t come. Instead, your husband becomes my nightly companion. He smokes a cigarette and I worry about errant embers. I groan under his weight and carelessness.

And then one morning you’re back. This time you’ve brought someone to show me. You settle the baby in my wooden lap and I cradle him.

You hold a party to celebrate the baby’s arrival. Two of the guests perch on the edge of my lap, as if afraid to spoil their fine clothes.

As they sip their drinks they whisper, ‘It’ll never last. He’s having an affair, you know.’

I wobble and wine sloshes scarlet over their dresses.

For a while I’m weighed down by your unhappiness.

A swing is placed in the branch by my side and I watch the boy grow. He has the same dark hair as his now absent father, but his smile is yours. I bear the weight of you both.

You teach the boy how to care for me by rubbing linseed oil over my limbs; his touch tender like yours.  

One day he’s as tall as you.

The seasons come and go and the chestnut tree expands.

You’re stooped now, your movements slower, your hair a cloud of white. As you sit our joints creak and I worry I’m too fragile to support you, but you’re lighter, insubstantial, your fingers twisted like the branches above us. Together we listen to the blackbird’s urgent cry.  

The leaves of the chestnut tree turn orange and fall, covering me in a bronze blanket.  

The cherry blossom is a riot of pink when the boy comes to uncover me. Of course he’s a man now. He scoops up the rotten leaves and when I’m bare he tuts, head on one side so like you.

He carries me into the garage. The axe glints on the wall and I think this is it, the end, but instead he picks up a lathe, a hammer and some nails. He rubs oil into me just like you taught him.

I feel renewed.

With gentle hands he returns me to my spot under the tree next to a casket of ashes.