Kay Harel

Why did I even peek under the shed? Perhaps the dog’s lacrosse ball had rolled under or I had heard animal scrufflings. When I looked, I saw bits of something flat and white, and though it was buried under rotted leaves, I could see it was big. I raked away the detritus to find a bench-sized, etched slab with a chipped corner. What I do remember is the thrill of discovering hidden treasure.

I did not mind the missing corner. I believe in the perfection of broken things. And it was a real treasure, marble, with ornate carving, of grapes and leaves and all sorts of antique froufrou.

I dragged the panel out, scrubbed away the age with a wire brush, and set it up on cinder blocks. The panel perches where country benches are meant to: amid flowers, in good view of the road. On the ground around the bench, I fitted together those colored slates so abundant in this region. I had conserved them from the old house. Though my hands assembled the marble and slate and cinderblocks, I feel I did not so much as make beauty as reunite pieces already together in an alternate universe.

The story has another part: Buried treasure was hidden by someone. Who? Why? I had wondered in passing how the piece got there, but I mainly cared that I received a gift from the universe.

Still, I did love learning the answer to the mystery, or at least a few pale facts.  

My house and land had previously been owned by a woman who had a brownstone on West 107th Street in New York City. Today, there are still old brownstones that display panels similar to my bench, over doors and under windows. So my lovely marble slab originated as a decorative feature on a Manhattan townhouse, then broke somehow, was shipped to limbo, then rescued. Why that panel was so stowed, though, is still a mystery.

Love, maybe? Treasure indeed. Or perhaps someone had envisioned making a bench.