The bench that built us

A story of love, passion and finding purpose

My eyes flood with darkness, I wake before the 5:30am alarm beats the first tune of every morning. The upbeat melody does not wake my husband, still breathing deeply. I rise onto my slippered feet, snooze the alarm and open the shutter louvers.

The steady brightening of sunrise usually wakes him. I lift the handle and push open the bedroom window. Stillness, bathed in cylindrical columns of the orange glow of streetlamps pool on the black tar road in perfect circles, distantly narrowing to the blue grey Hottentots Holland mountain. Dawn dissolves the bedroom’s nighttime silence with birdsong and chilled salty air.

While we get ready, the phone alarm starts the next song on the playlist. Tapestry from David soundtrack chosen after family movie night.

There’s a reason for the colours in your story
There’s a picture though you cannot see it yet
Every thread has a purpose and soon you’ll see
Your part in this tapestry

When you feel like nothing is connecting
And you’re searching for an answer you can’t find
Just remember that each strand is intersecting to reveal what the Creator has designed
Any masterpiece is gonna take some time
David (2025)

The sports stadium buzzes with energy, starting guns, announcers and supporters in crowds. Next to the astroturf sprinters are on their marks in starting blocks and we huddle, surrounding our 9 year old boy in three generations. He is invited to the provincial track and field championship after succeeding in four consecutive weeks of competition. Every event could be the last.

Our son, lives life with contagious gregarious energy like the vibrant purple flowers on the bushy bougainvillea spanning our bedroom window. His tall lean frame, bright kind eyes and halo of auburn ringlets captivate you. Furniture, ornaments and any other item in a room also do not escape his curious presence.

After warming up, snacking, and watching the sprints, his age group’s shotput event is called over the loudspeaker. The East district’s team manager leads him and two other shotput athlete teammates onto the field. We watch the shrinking trail of identical athletics uniforms; navy blue vest with a broad yellow band at the waist and bottomed off with navy blue mesh; leave our gathering support and venture beyond the spectator border to the expansive lively arena.

On a steep grassy mound, separated by the astroturf track, our bodies still, hearts beating wildly, expectantly. All, except his dad.

Fellow district athletes queue behind the throwing circle. A row of colourful vests in multiples of three or four boys waiting to wind up and throw 2kg iron ball. Three generations; mom, brother, aunt, and grandparents; flank him on the grassy embankment too steep to be accessible or safe for a wheelchair.

His father’s mighty presence bridges the obstacle path to his son by a fierce love and pride. Too far to hug his fears away or encourage him with words directed at the heart. I wonder if at 9 years old, I could have conjured this bravery, when singled to compete with the best of my peers and remain as strong as this little boy has shown?

Between breaths, cameras in focus on his thin, strong arm picking up the metal ball. His body low at the edge of the throwing circle, thigh muscle parallel to the ground and one step, two steps, whoosh… Iron hits grass, a cloud of dust forms visually captured by the officials and just as suddenly disappears. The grey sphere rolls beyond a patch of threadbare grass. We watch him return to the grass from the concrete circle and the official raises her white flag.

Relieved, excited, and proud my arms wave high and air fill my chest. The distance is recorded and read to him, and he turns to us on the mound behind hands in the air lifting eight fingers, then one the five: his achievement. I hold my breath and capture two more strong practised throws from the throwing circle, relieved, and breathe when two more white flags are raised and smile with pride with two more finger results. My mom hugs me, “Wow, he has done really well.” The officials gather the group of athletes cross legged for the names of the top four.

He crosses the astroturf track towards us, our hands clapping together and voices high with “well done” and “good job.”

We take turns walking beside him back to our camping chairs and my husband, with our arms around him giving him praise and love. Back to the lawn, he breaks away sprinting the last few metres into his father’s embrace.

Our son, and that lone bougainvillea branch towers above the rest of the plant, supported and nourished and knows its purpose. The victory is more than a medal; his victory today was another thread in his tapestry.