First frost on the covered bridge keeps us from traveling far - our trousers stiff already, noses reddened by sharp cold air. A blanket of snow on its roof waits for warmer temperatures to melt it and long icicles hanging from eaves. I snap a photo as I cross, for what could be a long time, making a pretty postcard scene to paint and send. Decorated with sleigh bells and lights for the holidays, I reset my memories. Not a bridge to nowhere, but to the unknown, to a future life, travels beyond adolescence.
I recall the river rising, flowers blooming, and being with friends all day at the bridge. I imagine horse-driven wagons, cattle, people parading across the bridge since before the turn of the century. Hazy summers we floated down the river, gliding under it, emerging from its shadowy earthen underside to a sunnier other side. When fifty mph winds blew through the tunneled building, it was hard to stand up straight inside, especially when young lovers would meet there in the middle of the day, sneak a kiss or leave initials carved on a board.
The young do not see the passage of time in the bridge's fading beauty, only decay. Anytime a welcome sight, the old covered bridge yawns as we go along the road on our way.
Life never will be
the same; many dreams born there -
fish jumping all day
dversepoets.com
We are writing about bridges today in the haibun form, a short tale ending with a haiku.
