Jesamine

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In the garden was a stone bench with a name carved into it – Jesamine. That is all it said. Jesamine. Nothing about the owner of this name, when she lived or died, no epitaph, not a word, nothing at all to tell us about the one who so inspired someone to carve her name into this bench. 

Did she love to sit here and watch the world go by, guarded by the statue of Diana and her hounds? Did she sigh with pleasure while breathing in the sweet smells of a country garden, listening to the drone of honeybees, and basking in the gentle sunlight?

Or did she come here to meet some lover who mourned her passing and inscribed her name in the cold stone of the bench so that many would remember her, if not by the warmth of her presence, then by her sadness of her absence?

I asked around the village but no-one seemed to know of any Jesamine, or why her name was carved so floridly, so expertly, into the stone bench. I had begun to despair of ever finding out who this woman might be.

One morning, I was sitting on the bench watching the ducks in the pond diving for food when an old woman came trudging up the pathway and plonked down beside me. She was well into her declining years, but bright eyed and lively of tongue. She told me many tales of the village, none of which I had heard from any of the other inhabitants.

After an hour or so of storytelling, she placed her hand on my arm and said that she'd heard I'd been trying to find out about Jesamine. I told that was so, that I was intrigued by the carving and curious to know more about it. She told me it was a long tale, and would I like to come to her house for a cup of tea while she told me all she knew about Jesamine.

I said yes without hesitation. Bad move.