She settles on the park bench everyday, sharing her perch with a sundry population of passersby who gravitate toward her - a pinstriped businessman, a drug numbed youth, an adventurous traveller. She grants the same gentle smile to all. The chattering ducks parade before her, so accustomed to her presence as to be oblivious.

She stoops slightly as she sits quietly, a cardigan draped protectively around her shoulders, like a loved one holding her close, warding off the chill of a breeze. Her posture suggests a stiffening of joints. The nearby weeping willow echoes her stance and dapples shadows across her brow.

Her cheek is smooth yet the creases are permanent and etched deep. Her cloudy eyes seem fixed in a dreamy stare while fine wrinkles gently pleat around her lids. Her hair is in a classic chignon – a wayward tendril tucked behind an ear, another sneaking loose at the nape, softening a severe style. A tiny pearl is firmly secured in each earlobe. Something in her manner suggests she could have been a beloved teacher.

Children run up, stop short, and then with polite caution take the last few steps toward her. Inevitably, they stroke the back of her thickly veined hand or caress a button on her sweater. Sitting companionably beside, their small hands inquisitively finger a locket suspended on a chain. Does it open? What precious photo is contained? A grandchild? A long lost love? One wonders.

She is frequently photographed, alone or with companions, her charm clearly crossing cultures and ages.

The calm, trustworthy aura she exudes makes her a confidante - a non judgemental friend. It’s tempting to speculate about the stories she has heard, the confessions she promises to keep within.

Lovers stroll by, pausing to share a smile with her, squeezing their entwined fingers in recognition of her special effect. Often they kiss, her presence a strange catalyst for spontaneous expressions of love and affection. They never offend her sensibilities.

In the Spring, a blossom will find its way into her grip, in the Fall, a brilliant leaf. As she endures the winter rains, a bench mate will settle an umbrella over her protectively. She seems grateful for these gestures.

As the sun sinks she is haloed in a warm golden glow. Her silhouette remains still as the soft navy night descends and the streetlights flicker on with a hum. She appears equally happy for those who visit in the evening as for those she meets during the day. The crisp air cools her cheek and exposed fingers.

During a snowstorm this past winter, I approached her special spot and found her nestled on her bench, vulnerably open to the swirling raw currents. I gently brushed the flakes from her hair and her rounded shoulders and cleared away the snowy layer covering the plaque beside her - the one recognising her creator, the sculptor, J. Seward Johnson. I marvelled at how this wonderful work of art succeeds in engaging and comforting so many.