Bridge

A poem from two years ago, when my thoughts were stronger than my skills.

There is a bridge half an hour away

From the blue walls and stony driveway of my parents’ home

Far enough be a spectacle yearned

Passed often enough to be persistent.

It looms above and casts a far shadow

And I never remember what’s on either side of it

But the road we drive below carves out the mountain

So the bridge only fills what used to be there.

In the sun it is the color of sidewalk

Or dumpling skin or the inside of a cereal box.

But the rain catches the stone and gathers until heavy

And streaks down like mascara until it is almost all black.

Back when my mother would drive me

I’d stare at the arch and the beam resting atop

And try to watch for people or cars crossing

And wonder why there was no graffiti.

I drive myself now under the bridge and back again

Going nowhere just so I can pass it twice

See it from both sides and below

And wonder about what road would take me above.

A friend told me she outran depression

When she saw a bridge one day

And found it so beautiful she just started laughing.

I haven’t found this one funny yet

But I’ll drive past one more time just in case.