There's a lot one can find in a park bench.
Initials carved into the wood like promises, fixed into roughly carved hearts surrounded by x's and o's. Notches scattering the bottom-left part from constant kicking Rusted paint flecking off the iron legs like autumn-leaves from rainy days when kids went splashing. A tiny slip of newspaper stuffed in between screws, holding the date of a very special anniversary. A missing chip of wood scratched off as a memoir. A purple vein of Sharpie ink across the back.
Yeah, I think, as I stare at my park bench, there's a lot.