If they would dedicate a bench to me, I'd have them lay some fresh concrete, not much, just about four feet.

I'd have them place a pad and rusted seat, between the adult framing trees and paint it green.

And henceforth, it would be known as the writers bench, dedicated to all of the sights left unseen, from that particular spot to be.

But I doubt they'd waste a bench on me.

And perhaps, that spot's better left to the grass and trees.

To the living me.

A quiet, well framed, subtle spot where a man can breathe.