As a child, I hiked, camped, and crossed all the old rickety, wooden, and solid bridges of Washington State Parks, it terrified me to cross them, no matter the condition but I never spoke up. I’d say I am not sure why but I know why.
I did not want to disappoint or affect the day or trip negatively.
Now the idea of bridges is poetic to me, albeit I’m still scared of crossing a bridge on a hike, even in the city. This overpass going from Eastlake to Capitol Hill is the most breathtaking as far as views but the feeling of dread is unlike anything I have experienced.
Bridges at work….burning bridges that is; burning friendships bridges, burning family bridges…all of which I can speak to. The pandemic showed me who my true friends are, the family bridges burned long ago, my brother on one side, me on the other, we lit the match and watched it slowly drop to annihilate childhood ideals and my idealistic thinking:
That a brother would stand tried, ride or die, true…no matter what.
I still smell the burning of a friendship I thought would last, alas, some people are for a season. These days I tread lightly on most bridges, I have the scars to prove burning isn’t always the way to move on, sometimes it’s simply walking across and away, never looking back at the beautiful landscape of a path you tried so hard to foster.
~B
