Crossing Over
The bridges that carry us
Crossing the old steel-beamed truss bridge
looking down on railroad tracks below
Mom squeezed my hand tight:
Don’t look down if you are scared!
We walked this bridge many times
connecting me from the neighborhood I knew to the
exotic one with pizza dough and pepperoni freshly shaved,
an old iconic movie theater with balconies and velvet seats.
The bridge that took me to new places
expanded my seven-year-old world
and taught me how to return home:
Hold her hand and don’t look down
Home is back that way, turn right at the scary house
with the messy Mulberry trees.
The old bridge closed to car traffic; we crossed on foot,
the way down no longer so far as my legs grew taller.
My world expanded, I traversed it alone,
always knowing my way home and who would be there waiting,
Always waiting.
That bridge is gone now, so is my mom.
I know other ways to get to that side of town but nothing there remains…
