We had little then—just punk clothing, inexpensive beer, and plenty of attitude.
Every weekend we would sit on the seat as if it were our own personal monarchy. Arguing about bands, exchanging half-burnt smokes, daring one another to do the dumbest things. None of us had work worth bragging about, but that was irrelevant. We had one another. We have one guideline:
“No matter what happens—same bench, same crew, 30 years from now.”
We agreed on it. Full-on blood pact like morons in a film.
Then life did what it usually does.
Dale married first, then divorced almost as quickly. I relocated towns for a meagerly paying position. Kev vanished for a few years; he was attempting to get clean and didn’t want us to witness him like way. Richie! Before tattoo businesses became fashionable, he opened one.
We fell out of contact. Usually. A few birthday messages here, one unanticipated hospital visit there.
Last month, though, I received a message in our former group thread. Only one sentence:
You everybody still know where the bench is?
No smiley faces. No background. Simply that.
And of course, we arrived. Just weary knees, faded tattoos, and more tales than time—no mohawks, no ripped jeans. Richie brought green bottles like vintage. Dale still rolls his sleeves as if he were 20.
Then Kev took something from his pocket—something he said had been saved since that summer in ’84. Slightly yellowed at the edges, it was an old Polaroid picture of the four of us sitting exactly where we were now, looking impossibly young and invincible. Its paint remaining vivid against the park’s vegetation, the bench behind us looked newer then.
Do you recall this? Kev inquired, his voice laden with feeling. “This was taken immediately following our pact-making.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at how grave we seemed, how certain we were that thirty years would never alter anything between us. Shaking his head, Dale squinted at the picture. Those haircuts are terrible, he said. What the hell were we thinking?
Richie opened a bottle and passed it around. “Contemplation?” That landed us into problems back then. Though perhaps not quite as loud or careless, we all chuckled; the sound traveled across the calm park as it once did.
Kev appeared especially quiet as we passed the bottles and exchanged memories. When I inquired about it, he sighed heavily. “There’s something else,” he said as he reached for a tiny leather notebook. This was among my ancient belongings. It’s… um, it’s sort of a journal from back then.
Driven by curiosity, we pushed him to read several entries. Turning the pages revealed a new image of our past. There were goals we had forgotten about; Dale wanted to be a musician, Richie wanted to see the globe, and even I had fantasies of writing books. But most notably were Kev’s own comments; he had penned about wishing to assist those battling addiction like he finally would.
Kev gently remarked, “This isn’t only nostalgia.” “It’s a reminder of who we were meant to be.”
Richie ended the quiet and the discovery lingered thick in the air. He said, “Perhaps it’s not too late.” “Sure, we’ve all done alright, but perhaps we can still pursue those aspirations.”
Dale gave a meaningful nod. Lately, I’ve been playing guitar once more. After all, perhaps music isn’t such a wild concept.
Encouraged by their candor, I admitted that I had been quietly writing short stories during lunch breaks. I said, “Maybe it’s time to start taking them seriously.”
At last appearing lighter than he had all night, Kev smiled. I have also been working in rehabilitation facilities. If nothing else, perhaps telling our experience might motivate others to continue battling.
We created fresh ideas as the night progressed—not extravagant or unreasonable but sincere promises to respect those younger iterations of ourselves. Not only to remember but also to help one another’s revived interests, we decided to meet often.
We stood together one last time before going home as dawn started to break, throwing long shadows over our cherished bench. Joggers showing on pathways and birds starting their early songs signaled the park waking around us.
“You know,” Dale remarked, glancing back at the bench, “this place hasn’t changed much.” Feels like it’s been waiting for us.
“It has,” Kev said, putting the journal away safely. “Just like we waited for one another.”
Walking away, I understood the actual strength of our covenant was not in maintaining a pledge to come back to a certain location. It was in reminding us that development does not equal forgetting your origins. Looking back occasionally enables you to go forward purposefully.
Life Lesson: Our past forms us, but it should not determine our future. Honoring who we once was helps us to have the strength to follow who we should be.
Should you appreciate this path of friendship and rediscovery, kindly share and like this article. Let’s tell people it’s never too late to reconnect with their aspirations!
