The Bridge

Smooth. Shouldn’t painted steel feel gritty? Maybe everything isn’t as it had looked from a distance. The ravens flying by cawed occasionally to each other, swooping and dipping on the breeze. It looked so peaceful, so simple. But you knew that they spent tons of energy beating their wings against the gusts. Nothing was as simple as it looked. Not even the birds. Looking down at the water beating against the rocks brought back the physical senses. No more distractions. No more gazing off and analyzing useless things like how hard it was for a bird to swoop and stay in flight. Here and now. This is what needed to be paid attention to. No more avoidance. Feel the edge of the screw holding the steel support beams to the railing. Smell the slight fishy smell of the river below. See the cracks in the wooden slats that made the walk path of the bridge. Analyze this. How far down is it? How many people did it take to build this forgotten architectural masterpiece? How many cars even drove over it anymore? 2 a day? less? How many hours did people work; riveting, sawing, hammering, holding... useless.

Well not entirely usless. There would be a lot of use to what they built in a few minutes. If only the procrastination could stop. How long was this bridge anyway? 100ft? Had to be somewhere close to that, to span the rio grande like it did. Down below were the boulders that teenage boys had been coming to sit on and fish for years. Slick with spray from the churning river they were a challenge but had always been worth the risky climb for the plethora of fish that hung out near their bases. Someone would fish out something new tomorrow. The most sensational catch of the year to be sure. Would even get in the papers. Small towns like this were always looking for a good story, but this would be one even a big town would report on. Newsworthy, that’s what tomorrows fisherman would be. Maybe it’d be a teenage boy, he’d be asked to retell the details to groups of girls who would hang all over him like a celebrity: “Was it terrible? Would he have nightmares? They could comfort him...”

He’d be happy. Or maybe not. Judgement of people was clearly not a speciality. Places though, always a good judge of places. Places to live, to work, to get married, to camp, to die... Funny how the latest place had been so easy to analyze. A lot less variables I suppose when there isn’t any aftermath or possible outcomes. Just one.

Smooth. Red and smooth. A perfect balance of architecture. Supported, able to weather any storm, sturdy... made with the intention of lasting many lifetimes over. Thick wooden planks that were made for thousands of cars and pairs of feet to transverse. Peaks up above that came together in perfectly measured triangles. The gentle climb from hip hight to towering 30’ in the air at the center and back down to the inviting exit. Could just walk the 50 feet to the other side, take that exit and just try again. Or keep the plan and just see what the underside of the bridge was made like. See how thick the concrete supports really were. Those were gritty to be sure. Rough and worn from the constant rush of the river. They saw the reality of daily existence, of daily use. This bridge stood impervious to wear, rarely used, rarely troubled with the weight of passing burdens. Maybe that was why it was so smooth. If nothing ever touched you did you ever wear down? Was that the secret? To stay so high above the daily churning that nothing could harm you? Lonely yes, but undamaged. And was alone really lonely anymore? Maybe alone simply meant uninterupted, unburdened...unused but standing strong. Smooth.

The water seemed darker, looking up and seeing the lengthening shadows...been here too long. Now it’ll be too dark to see the bottom of the river. A dark journey is never interesting. Might as well be entertained on the way down right? Or maybe another week, wait for the fish to get more plentiful. Really there had only been a few down there today. If no one came to fish tomorrow it’d really be a shame. A story like this shouldn’t go unnoticed. Yeah, another week or two. When the fish were running thick in the stream, come back. After all, it was only a slight delay. Walking away on creaking planks, seems such an easy choice now. The fading light simply made the choice. Who knows, after tonight....might just be back tomorrow. Either way, the way down would be smooth. Just like the red railing running underhand. Smooth, until that last corner. Stinging and suddenly the railing is more red, drops of it adorning the single rough edge where the steel paint had started to peel. Maybe nothing was as enduring or smooth as it looked. Not even the way out.