The Bench of Lost Memories

 

The chill of autumn enveloped the city as leaves crunched underfoot, unnoticed by those walking, oblivious to the broken poetry of the street corners. You had sat on a park bench, seeking a moment’s respite, a pause in the monotony of days that rolled on like an endless train. That’s when the girl appeared. Her large, dark eyes met yours for just a second—enough for you to feel the weight of her presence.

She smelled of abandonment, of sadness woven into the folds of her tattered clothing. A wave of discomfort washed over you, like a shiver running down your spine, and you stood almost immediately, stepping away to escape the echo of her misery. Yet, something compelled you to glance back, to watch her from the corner of your eye. Something about the hollow curve of her cheeks, the tremor in her hands, the way she hugged her knees with resignation, felt familiar.

And then, the realization hit you like a slap of icy air: that girl was you.

She wasn’t just any child. She was the living image of your own memories, a younger version of yourself, lost in a time when lack was your only certainty. The girl remained there, seated, unaware of the storm she had unleashed in your mind. You observed yourself from the outside, struggling to understand how you had come to forget. How had you allowed the mirror of life to show you her face without recognition?

The day before Thanksgiving, that ritual of abundance masked as gratitude, you returned to the park. While shop windows glowed with warm lights and the aromas of festive meals filled the air, you sought the girl with an almost feverish urgency, as if finding her might repair something broken inside you.

But she was gone.

The bench was empty, and a cold wind swept across it like a ghost. It was an emptiness that enveloped you, resonating with an uncomfortable truth: the girl wasn’t real. She was only a reflection of what you had tried to bury. The hunger, the loneliness, the despair. Everything you had learned to ignore as life led you down more comfortable paths.

That night, surrounded by a table full of smiling faces and overflowing plates, you felt her absence like a blow to the stomach. The girl didn’t need turkey or photos; she needed you to remember who you were. To be able to look back with compassion, not shame.

And so, while the festive clamor surrounded everyone else, you made a promise: never again would you rise from a bench at the scent of misfortune. Because now you knew misfortune has a face, and sometimes, that face is your own.

The author is a pediatric surgeon and writer.