Bridges

1.
The earliest image of me that I recognize as me (as opposed to the actual earliest image) is a tile painted my mother painted. Here I am, standing on the bridge we crossed every day, going home or leaving it.

I remember playing Poohsticks, posing for a Christmas card, helping children onto the bridge to talk to Santa, my brother riding his motorcycle over the bridge (and landing in jail because he was too young for a license), the metal Robin Hood hanging from the lit lamp, glowing soft yellow-orange.

This bridge led me home.

2.
Lake Cheston has a series of four bridges along the water's edge. My favorite used to feel more private, before the dog park, now clearly visible on the way to, on, and from the bridge. It's still my favorite lake bridge anyway, largely because of the tree that blushes and then flushes every fall, throwing deep shade and dropping flaming leaves on weathered wood.

This bridge makes me feel at home.