patio.

My bench is resting on a rectangular slice of concrete. The rectangular slice of concrete is acting as my faux patio. I say faux because neither the bench nor the concrete belong to me. In the meaningful sense, they belong to someone who knew Caroline Cook. The bench is dedicated to her memory. In the realistic sense, the entire bench patio package probably belongs to the City of Tulsa's Parks and Recreation Department. 

My elbow is resting on an arm of wood, and my back is leaning against a bronze colored plaque, etched with the previously noted dedication, bearing the name of Miss Cooke, who must have meant a lot to someone, somewhere. My bench rests beneath a tree that acts as my faux canopy. The branches hang low. My head grazes the dangling leaves as I walk toward the trunk, but once I am under their protection, I can stand upright, as if the leaves are the nylon of nature's umbrella, the branches are the stretching metal, and the trunk an adjustable handle. My benches' position beneath the tree is, simply, right. 

I sit here in appreciation. I have no patio of my own. I am thankful for my home, but I do not belong anywhere outside of it. My front yard is someone else's backyard, and like the bench belongs to Tulsa, everything I live in belongs to the people that own my front back yard. My appreciation for Tulsa's patio extends to Caroline, for being the kind of woman that merits such an idyllic bench, placed in a fantastical location, under an umbrella tree overlooking a garden of roses, all in her memory.