Bridges

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She fell in love with bridges.

She always marveled at the mere idea of them. A pathway, arcing through the sky, crossing the water. And it was a miracle that they could be built at all, somehow placing those supports so deep in the river, somehow holding all of that weight for decades.

Her father often told her how important it was to never burn bridges.

It was when she was little, when she was ten, that she found her love. She had snuck out of home, told her parents she was going to her friend’s place up the street. And she went all the way out to the main street, and she went all the way out to the bridge that crossed the river into downtown. She’d brought all the money that she’d saved up, and she went to a music store to buy the new Muse album. And then she had a couple dollars left over, so she got herself an ice cream cone.

Nobody questioned it. It wasn’t really a city where people questioned things.

And on the way home, she crossed back over that bridge, and there was a man there, standing at the edge. He had been looking out at the river, staring out to the bay. Must’ve been new in the city. He should’ve looked sad, but he looked impressed, but about what, she didn’t know.

And he looked at her. He looked at her and smiled. Then he climbed over the edge and jumped.

She never told anybody. What was the point?

The Muse album was great, by the way. It was everything she hoped it to be.

What was it about bridges that she loved so much? It wasn’t anything particular. It was the possibilities. It was the aesthetic. It was the power.

She never talked about it. It was her secret love. One time when she was a freshman, she was taking the bus home, and she saw them fixing the bridge on the far other end of town. She got out and watched, from her own bridge, the bridge where she’d seen the man fall.

They had these boats, and they had all these big trucks. She’d waited there for hours, watching, until the sun was going down. Her parents got mad at her for disappearing, and she didn’t want to say what she’d been doing.

She wanted to build. She drew maps. She learned the physics, and the weight distribution. She watched shows. She saw books once, at the library, but she didn’t dare check them out. She wanted nothing more than to get a boat and sail under the bridges, see them from below, see them from an angle that nobody ever thought to look from.

She rarely thought about that jumping man. And she knew that she shouldn’t, but she wanted to see somebody else, watch somebody else fall. One night, when the whole house was asleep, she gotten onto her mom’s computer and watched videos of people jumping, but most of them were jumping from buildings, and it just wasn’t the same. There was something about standing over the center of the river, standing where the arc is the highest, and falling straight into the middle. The symmetry was unbearable.

And the dripping. The dripping of water. It had a sound to it.

On windy days, the water crashed against the sides of the bridges, and the air whistled through the holes, and the gaps, and she could hear the Earth whispering at her, beckoning.

She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to jump or anything. She just wanted to get a closer look.

Some bridges had a smell to them. She’d gone to the coast once, on vacation. There was this big bridge they’d crossed over, on the way into the hills, for a hike. And she could smell the bridge, like the sea, and she could almost see the barnacles clinging to the legs. She wanted to climb down and touch them, to feel them.

Sometimes she thought that she felt a little bit too much, that her emotions could never be tamed when she needed it most. Bridges could never be moved. They were impossibly sturdy, fighting gravity, fighting the waves, fighting the water that tried to whittle them away.

When she thought about that day, she almost never thought about the man who jumped. She thought about the ice cream. A scoop of raspberry and a scoop of vanilla, with hazelnuts sprinkled on top. Only a dollar eighty. She’d never found that place again, or maybe they’d just upped the prices.

It was the cold and the wind, or maybe it was the stillness. She didn’t know. She didn’t know why she loved the bridges. She had so many guesses, but none of them tasted right in her mouth. Not that she’d ever say them aloud.

Mom brought a brochure home once, from some city she’d traveled too, and it had a wide, majestic bridge on the front. The brochure went missing, hidden under a bed. What do normal teenagers hide under their beds? Money? Liquor? Certainly not brochures.

But some nights, she took it out from under her bed, and she touched the cover, wanted to touch the concrete, touch the steel. Hear the traffic going by. Taste that ice cream again, a scoop of raspberry and a scoop of vanilla, with hazelnuts sprinkled on top.

She’d forgotten the man’s face. She’d forgotten it a long time ago. Maybe she’d never remembered it at all. But she remembered the look he’d given her. The smile. The look of wonder as he stared down the river, into the bay. The grace with which he’d climbed up onto the railing.

He hadn’t jumped. He’d flown.

 

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