As I Sit Dying by L.R.School
“I am a bench crafted of stone by humans for their pleasure and use, but you are mere weeds,” I told the plants when I arrived in the graveyard. “They will sit upon me and think of their loved ones but you will be trampled upon and broken down. When winter comes you will die and I will remain.” They didn’t speak. They never would.
Through the years the plants grew where they could, carpeting the fresh graves or sneaking up between the cracks in the sidewalk. Autumn came and they desperately tried to spread their seeds before the snow buried them. When it thawed I remained and they did not. Even as the cracks in the sidewalk grew larger and more numerous, even as fewer and fewer people sat on me while visiting their loved ones, even as moss splotched my surfaces, and even as dirt built up on me; I remained and they did not.
And then it happened. A plant sprouted in the thin layer of dirt in one of my corners. Soon there were many and before long their roots were snaking into me, worming down into my cracks. At first I told myself that someone would come and clean them off, patch me up and once again sit in me. But no one came and no one will come.
I know I won’t last another year and no one will ever sit on me again. I can feel their roots burrowing deeper and deeper inside of me, breaking me apart bond by bond. But now I know their secret, their silent strength—we all go back to the dirt.