The Bench, In Loving Memory

The next time you visit your local park or garden, take a moment and read the memorial plaques, if there are any, on the statues, the flowerbeds, the fountain, the trees, or the benches. I will from now on. I never imagined I would be thinking of a plaque inscription (of 3 lines, 25 characters or less) to memorialize my son. It's not easy and I don't know what I want it to say yet. Following Owen's death in May, I thought it would be lovely to honor him in nature somehow. I am touched that my former colleagues felt the same way and initiated the idea so that our family can pay tribute to Owen in a park we love with a memorial bench. But I was not prepared for the bittersweet feelings I had the morning my family visited the park to scout a spot for him, in loving memory.

The bridge

My former colleagues graciously donated a bench in honor of Owen at the interstate park where Kevin and I wed six years ago. The park overlooks the Hudson River and the section of the park where Owen's bench will sit faces the George Washington Bridge. The bridge, which connects New York City and New Jersey is significant to Kevin and me because it is where we walked after Owen died to collect our thoughts before driving home and where we first sensed Owen around us after he left us; it is where Kevin told me he felt his son in the trees, the water, the sky, and the sun.

View from the bridge

The bench

The park coordinator recommended three locations for the new bench and felt confident he could install it by the end of September, near what would have been Owen's first birthday. With September starting in a week, Kevin, Lea, my brother and sister-in-law met at the park to see the bench spots and have a family picnic and playground day.

We were not the only family to have a socially distanced picnic. Almost every picnic table was occupied with tents, balloons, coolers, the smell of grilled chicken wings, and convivial sounds of families saluting the end of summer.

After exploring the playground with Lea and before eating our picnic lunch, our family strolled towards the row of benches facing the bridge. I felt a mix of envy and bitterness while passing the families enjoying their picnics. They laughed and took selfies as we scouted a place to honor our late son. "Everyone has their struggles too," I reasoned. "And this may be their day to forget about them." On the surface, we probably appeared as the perfect carefree family as well.

As soon as we reached the three benches to be replaced, I knew which bench spot would be Owen's – the one closest to the river. You couldn't ask for a better view of the bridge in my opinion. It was a beautiful location.

When we approached the bench, a father and his son, about Lea's age, were sitting on it having a snack and a tender moment. I imagined what Owen would have been like at this boy's age. We passed the boy and his dad to look at the other newly installed benches along the path and read the dedications on their brass plaques. I thought about how each person honored there had a unique story, touched a life, was loved and deeply missed.

Fear of changing seasons

Behind each bench was a tree, a maple tree, I think. It was a hot day, but the trees' auburn and golden leaf tips revealed the telltale signs of seasons changing. The sight of this coloration saddened me. Owen died nearly four months ago during the warm months of spring and summer and I'm almost dreading fall and winter because the new seasons will confirm the passing of time.

I'm afraid that over time the memories of Owen will grow duller and the loss of him will lose weight or significance in an evermore chaotic world, even with the memorial bench symbolizing the indelible impression he made in people's lives. He has already become more of an idea in my mind (which is probably the brain's way of protecting itself) until I see evidence of his former physical existence, like his winter coat in the back closet, and my grief intensifies. At the same time, I'm saddened by the future milestones I will not have of my son, as I did not only lose a baby but decades of memories. Seeing the world change, even my daughter's growth spurts remind me of how I will not see the evolution of Owen on earth and it hurts.

Flashing Forward

Staring at the bridge and the river, Kevin and I flashed forward twenty years in our minds. The bench will be a comforting spot for our family. It will be a place to commune with Owen, to cry, to contemplate life. Our son never visited this park but we can create memories around him here, warm memories, maybe on his birthdays in September. The park's foliage is spectacular in the fall.

Kevin and I thought about us, as seasoned adults, visiting here in the future, gazing at the water, the sky, and the bridge; inhaling the crisp river breeze, listening to children playing in the distance; and thinking of Owen, wondering what his life would have been like as a toddler, a young boy, a teenager, an adult, a father, a grandfather. We may even imagine how the scenery here doesn't compare to what he is experiencing in another realm.

In my heart, not in my lap

Owen, the day at the park with the family was lovely, but you were missed. My soul wilts at the end of a memorable day because I don't know how to feel completely happy in a world without you in it. You are in my heart, and perhaps your spirit was at the bench that day, but, oh, how I wish you were sitting on my lap at that bench instead.