Park Benches

I sit on a park bench, open only to those who suffer.  Many days, I am passed by unnoticed. Families, singletons, young and old shuffling onward without a trace of knowing they are making footprints in the tears that I have shed.  Other days, all eyes seem to peer into my soul.  Seconds, minutes, days, months, and even years appear to blend in with the rising and setting of the sun.  It all depends on the moment.  Sometimes, I am able to pry my eyes away from my own suffering and smile and revel in their joy and other days, I find comfort in my own pain. On those days when it becomes too much, if I have the courage to let it, that simple little park bench that I've been perched upon, opens up to fit a gaggle of companions.  All of us, birds of the same feather, part of the same wounded flock, if ready and willing, can lift each other up and fly away from what seems to keep us standing still.  We heal each other's broken wings.