The Dying Bench

Looking for a little spring in the winter of life 🐌

Feb 21, 2025

Collecting Dust is...One part Nostalgia. One part strange magic. All inspired by photos of real objects begging to tell a story if only we will pay attention.

I hope you enjoy this story inspired by this little friend I snapped a picture of last week and a mysterious bench I once found in our woods but can’t seem to find again.

When Ruth entered Brookdale Nursing Home after the death of her husband, the other residents told her a story. A bench lay hidden in the woods behind the home, waiting for those who needed it. The Dying Bench, they called it. And when she was ready, she would find it beside a babbling brook that took all pain away. Seeing this as an unwelcome bit of morbidity, Ruth filed the story away and continued on with her new life.

But when her daughter died, and then her son, she decided to go looking for the bench. No use hanging around anymore if there would be no visitors; who was she living for anymore? Certainly not herself. The aches and pains, the limited mobility, the tedious games and repetitive chats with her neighbors; it was like living in Groundhog Day.

It was one of those late winter days that trick you into believing an early spring is possible when Ruth set off into the woods behind Brookdale, her only preparation a pair of gardening boots and a mini plastic water bottle stolen from the fridge in the waiting area. Everyone else was in the parlor watching the news (What was the point?) or busy with more sickly patients than herself, so she slipped out unnoticed.

The sun beat down on her skin, and she wondered if perhaps spring really would come soon this year, though it didn’t matter to her much anymore. Neither did skin cancer. She ambled down the path and then strayed off it, her hands reaching for tree after tree to maintain her balance on the uneven ground. She knew from the stories that The Dying Bench was not to be found on the path. She didn’t have time to consider the significance of this fact but tromped through dead blackberry nettles and new poison ivy, which had not taken the winter off. Dead branches snapped beneath her feet, and soon, a three-hundred sixty-degree turn assured her she was invariably lost.

Where was that blasted bench? It was supposed to reveal itself to those who needed it. Well, if Ruth didn’t need it, she wasn’t sure who did. Everyone important to her was gone. Maybe there were some distant relatives who she barely knew. They’d get a nice surprise when she passed, that was for sure. They’d remember her then.

After walking for half an hour, she drank some water and shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. She needed that bench if only to catch her breath. This really was a predicament. Her fingers and toes had begun to tingle, and she stomped her boots to regain feeling. Perhaps she ought to turn back and try again on a colder day.

A bit more wandering and she again found the smooth gravel path that led to a paved one that ended at the optimistically huge parking lot at the back of the home. It stood empty as a desert year-round, and just her luck on this fine day the temperatures had risen enough to ignite the lot into something resembling a wobbling sea of tar. She braced herself for the march across the open expanse that lacked the handholds she needed to keep her balance, for Ruth still refused to carry a cane. In preparation, she drank yet more water. Now, barely a drop remained in the bottle she’d snagged. Her head pounded, and she cursed the tiny vessel, finally understanding why her daughter had always complained about the plastics. And how pointless was that size to sufficiently quench your thirst? How wasteful.

When she had made it about halfway across the parking lot, Ruth crossed paths with a tiny creature, a snail making its way in the direction from which she’d come. Her first thought was that a bare foot would hurt considerably more than her garden boots on a day like today. The second was that if it carried its home on its back why did it need to go anywhere? She looked up at the home toward which she was returning and shook her head. Nevermind.

Ruth knelt into the best crouch she could to inspect the snail. It waggled its antennae at her but kept on toward the treeline. It must need to find food, she thought. The snail’s moist skin sizzled audibly against the asphalt with each slow ripple of its body, and Ruth winced. A bead of sweat trickled down its face and instantly evaporated into steam on contact with the ground.

Something about the little arthropod reminded Ruth of her late husband. Quiet and determined in his own way, George had cultivated his garden until his dying day, never removing the insects or snails he found there. “They have as much right to it as I do,” he always said, but Ruth was always picking worms from her tomatoes, and the beetles never failed to decimate the fragrant roses lining their gate. Now, looking at this little fellow trying so hard to survive, she had an inkling of what her husband had been talking about for all those years. And this asphalt really was a nuisance. The determined thing would probably fry before he made it to the grass.

Still kneeling and contemplating the snail’s fate, Ruth heard someone call her name. So they’d realized she was gone, had they? But the voice didn’t sound angry. It sounded expectant. She recognized it as the voice of the young lady who manned the welcome desk. A visitor? Impossible. Ruth hadn’t had a visitor, since her granddaughter had brought her the news of her daughter’s death a year ago. And for her son last month, just a phone call. There was no one left, Ruth told herself again. But clearly, the lady at the desk wasn’t giving up. Ruth heard as the woman assured someone in her chipper tone that they would find Ruth and not to worry, she was probably outside enjoying the unusual weather. Well, that much was true. Ruth rose with creaking knees and glanced around, her brow furrowed.

A tiny mewling sound broke the repetitive calls of her name, and she glanced back down at the snail. He’d managed to get past her feet and was limping across the shadow cast by her figure. Despite his laudable progress, the snail whimpered and the beads of sweat dripping from his antennae made steady sizzling sounds as they plopped in rhythm onto the ground. Ruth knelt again and shaded the creature with her palm. Sorry little fella.

The voices calling her became louder. Two figures approached from the far side of the building where the pickleball courts stood, empty in the unseasonable heat. She recognized the woman from the desk by her quick, tiny steps and shining wave of blonde hair. The other figure, shorter and bulkier, she could not make out. They waved, and Ruth blinked in the sunshine.

In one swift movement, Ruth scooped up the snail into the palm of one hand and dumped the last drops of water from her bottle over his desiccating body. The creature emitted a tiny sigh of relief which made Ruth smile. Then she turned on a heel and marched back toward the trees.

Ignoring the two figures hailing her, Ruth stepped off the path and into the woods, her tiny companion nuzzling against her thumb. She’d get him off the path at least, so he wouldn’t have to experience that ungodly asphalt again.

When she could no longer hear the voices of her pursuers, Ruth stopped and glanced around. What did a snail like to eat anyway? She recalled seeing them among George’s blueberries, but berries were out of season. Would she be killing him by throwing him beside some unknown predator? Finally, beneath a cedar, she spotted a red toadstool, and it was so quaint, she knew this was the place.

She knelt again and placed her new friend onto the mushroom. The snail bowed his antenna and seemed to relax onto the spongy material. There you are, Ruth thought, and she placed a hand on one knee to stand, ready to face whoever had come to deliver more bad news.

But that was impossible, there was no more bad news left; everyone was already gone. A tugging at her chest and Ruth’s breath caught like the pinching of a hose. Her knees locked, and she couldn’t stand. Her vision blurred as she scanned for something to hold onto, to push herself up. Then she saw it—where the toadstool had stood just a moment before now stood a red lacquered bench.

She managed to pull herself onto the bench, and a rushing, trickling noise filled her ears. The scent of jasmine wafted around her. Like her new friend, a rest was all she needed. The last thing Ruth saw was a silvery slip of water out of the corner of her eye, a brook sliding beneath the cedar, gurgling merrily, and she smiled.

When they found her, the welcoming woman and Ruth’s granddaughter, along with her newborn son strapped to her chest, the old woman’s body lay peacefully in the dead leaves, a tiny snail perched in the crook of her collarbone.

The Dying Bench

Looking for a little spring in the winter of life 🐌

Discussion about this post