Sometimes, when it’s still; when the clouds hang heavy, I stand on the edge of the road and gaze at Thompson’s Bridge. Sometimes, it appears ugly. Other days, it’s beautiful. Today … well, I’m not sure. There’s a mist in the air. A light rain of sorts and my shoes are soaking wet. I pull my jacket tight and step back on my bike. Yet, I can’t peddle away. Somehow, I must keep looking. Keep watching the bridge. And I let the tears creep from my eyes; let them blend with the rain and the gray of the day as I finally ride away.
It does no good to dwell on the past, I tell myself. It simply never helps. I repeat the thought over and over and tell the mist to clear my mind.
But the rhythm of the whirring bike tires argue with me and I shut my eyes tight. The sight of my son hanging from the rafters of the aged structure strangles my heart and I can barely breathe. I allow the bike to arc around. Allow it to return to where I need to be.
This old rope I carry is made of prickly hemp. Raggedy and rough, it’s seen better days too. Now, it has yet one more job.
I look upward inside the bridge and my son watches me, his face white; pinched and drawn. As if on the verge of asking ‘why’.
“I’m ready, honey … this time I’m ready.”
There was no answer from my child. My dear, sweet son, wafting in the darkness above where I drop. I let life jerk away into the mist and wonder how I can still hear the owl calling my name.
© 2019, Susan Miller. All rights reserved.
- Clinging to the yesterdays, I sit, old now, and tired. But still riding my horse … looking not young and lithe, but more a sack of potatoes being toted faithfully by a horse almost sour in his work. Yet … we keep going. He, walking and grabbing weeds. Me, pretending I’m still young and strong. I dream. I long. And I tell the story of my life through fiction and the occasional poem.