Beverly, and Her Plaque on a Bench by the River

We've all seen those benches. You know, the ones with those little plaques that dedicates this fantastical seat to a person. Sometimes we even read further than the "Dedicated in memory to..." to actually find out what name is attached. But we sit, we read or rest or admire the scenery or eat or people watch, and then we get up and move on with our day. And hey, apparently that bench was dedicated to someone or something. How sweet.

But have you really ever stopped to think what that little square of engraved metal actually means? What it represents?

I was walking around a park by my hotel in Saskatoon, and it was full of grey and green benches, each one with its own such plaque. Lots of names and dates and 'loving father/friend/mother/brother/sister'. And then I stumbled on one that read "In memory of the love we shared. Beverly Ann Newman. 1953-2010." It brought my lazy walk to a screeching halt.



Those few words can't even begin to hint at the rich story behind how this message found its way to a park bench. Hell, to even call it a story doesn't even do it justice. These twelve words, smaller than your average Tweet, represent a whole life. No, even greater - it opens up a window the tiniest crack into two lives.

Beverly Ann Newman was a soul in a body and journeyed through life just like the rest of us. She woke up on cold, grey mornings and would sigh at the unexpected and gloomy rain. She combed her hair before going to work. She licked her fingers after eating greasy chicken, laughed at the stupid joke she heard from a friend, and raised her head, with eyes closed, to greet the sun on the warmest of spring mornings. And in the fall, she could breathe in and smell the first scent of the coming snowfall.

And one day she met someone. And they fell in love. And they spent minutes, hours, in silence as they stared into each other's eyes. And they bantered while waiting for the red light to change while they were on their way to a favourite restaurant. They licked their fingers after eating the sticky food on their plates, and they told each other stupid jokes to see the other smile, and they turned their heads out of the biting winter wind and held each other close as their feet went crunch, crunch, crunch through the snow and ice. And some days they'd just stop to watch the river flow by, resting their heads on eachother.

And one day when she was just 57, Beverly Ann Newman died. And her greatest love wept bitterly in the hospital, and bitterly at the funeral, and bitterly as a form was filled out to sponsor a municipal park bench by the river they had visited together. And sighed heavily when first sitting on the bench that now bore the name of a now-lost love.

I don't know who Beverly Ann Newman was, what she was like, the colour of her hair, or what kind of music she liked. I don't even know who she left behind, and how heavy their heart must've felt when this simple little piece of engraved metal was the best way they could declare to the world a simultaneous sorrow lamenting a period of shared, pure joy.

But looking at that small sign, I know that Beverly and her love lived and experienced every drop of this human experience as I have or can ever feel.

That's a lot of responsibility for twelve lonely words on a green and grey park bench.
-Cril

As I walk away
I look over my shoulder
To see what I'm leaving behind

Pieces of puzzles
And wishes on eyelashes fail

Oh
How do I show all the love
Inside my heart

Well this is all new
And I'm feeling my way through the dark

KT Tunstall - Through the Dark