It wasn’t beautiful, the corner of Cedar and Walnut. In fact, whatever planner decided to name the streets after trees must of have had some twisted sense of humor. No forest could have less to do with the dirty, dingy gray of metal and concrete.
Despite uninviting appearances, the bench at the corner was always full. Pedestrians couldn’t seem to resist its invitation. Sometimes they paused there with coffee and sandwiches from the warmly lit shop on the other side of the concrete wall. Mostly they just sat and read, chatted with strangers who joined them, or smiled with thoughtful eyes that saw anything but the noisy bustle of city streets.
They called it Le’s Corner in the neighborhood. Most didn’t know why, but the old man who ran the shop spoke the name with moist eyes. He ran trembling fingers over a faded black and white photograph of a tiny girl. Even in the aging exposure her eyes lit up the room, and her smile seemed just for me.
He had made the bench for her when he was just thirteen. She had loved people and spent more time talking with passersby than playing with the toys neatly arranged upstairs. Baba had even said that she kept the shop open because no one could resist stopping to visit with the sunny child and often passed the time sharing a cold snack or the warmth of a hot drink.
Everyone knew her name, and she knew theirs. Visitors would be brought to her corner as if to a temple or a great attraction. No one noticed surroundings when she sat on her bench; light and color seemed to emanate from her and soak into everything.
When she was gone, people came for the memory. They brought their children for quiet chats, who came out of habit and comfort as they became adults. Le’s brother fed them all, and her picture hovered like a shining star over the corner.
The Word Worker 