Bridges are a promise to return; bridges help you feel found when you are lost. These are lines I’ve written in poems during the last year. If I read these lines often enough perhaps they can be true. (?) I’m not sure I believe in bridges yet, but I know about feeling found.
I am invited and have been urged to attend a wedding in my ex-laws’ family. Earlier I had asked my daughter exactly where the wedding would take place: Somewhere between Huntley and Hardin. A 37 mile span of countryside, squared. My son: Dad said you’d recognize the spot.
He called me yesterday, my former husband. He was laughing when he said: Sherry, remember the bridge we parked on when we used to swim the creek?
This soon-to-be-wed niece wasn’t even a twinkle in her mother’s eye when the father of my children and I would sneak through the farmers’ fields intent on cooling off. We were new to this area of the state so we spent our weekends exploring every gravel road between what we already knew and what we didn’t know. Sometimes all we had to dry off with was a blue oil rag underneath the seat of our old Ford pickup. It was easier to dry out in the sun, in a field of clover and alfalfa where — apparently — now stands The Wedding Place.