Madelyn

     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 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.