The Bridge

It's been years since I've visited this bridge, although it still haunts my dreams. Just an ordinary bridge, the planks rotting because of the years of floods where the water whirled up over the boards. The water marks show clearly in the bright summer sunshine. It seems so ordinary, banal even, to my grownup eyes. It wasn't always so.

I remembered a different July day. Or night, rather. The impending storm had broken loose, the night crackling with lightning and thunder echoing across the water. We lived just on the other side of the bridge in a small three room cabin. No electricity, just kerosene lamps for light, and a fireplace for warmth. But it was safe and cozy for Mama and me. In the summers, we'd go berry picking, one of my mother's hands holding a basket, the other clasping my hand tightly. That was a world away, but I recall it very clearly. Just as I remember when my Daddy came home from prison.

He was rough and angry, an ugly intrusion into our quiet lives. He rarely smiled or spoke, but when he did his voice was loud and coarse. He and Mama fought constantly, horrible screaming arguments. It frightened me and I would curl up in my bed, trying to make myself invisible.

The night that haunts me still was windy and rainy. I heard him banging around and I hid in my corner, watching as he slammed my mother to the floor. He saw me then and pointed a gnarled finger at me. Mama ran out, heedless of the storm and he followed. I crept out of bed after them. They reached the bridge and he pushed her closer to the railing. They were in the center of the bridge when he slipped, falling heavily on the rough boards. I saw her standing there in the flashes of lightning. The water under the bridge roiled and frothed as he struggled to get his balance.

I ran then, and as he grabbed the railing I was at her side. We pushed him violently, like two furies. The rail gave way and he plunged down, down into the black waters.

"Help! Help!" he screamed above the wind. We both stood there in the center of the bridge, watching him flail and struggle. She turned to me, eyes wild, her face fierce, all the softness gone. She reached out her hand to me, and I clasped it tightly. We watched him go under, the swift current taking him down river.

We never talked about that night. The next morning she was her usual self, making me breakfast and gently brushing my hair.

"Let's go berrying," Mama said.

She's gone now. Only this bridge and I remember that night.