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 that I need to cross over for. I hear, “Hold my hand and don’t look down.” when I don’t know the way from here to there.

Crossing over was bravery for her too, afflicted with fears and anxiety we now have names and medication for She held my hand tightly — maybe for her own sake.

When I cross to the Other Side and arrive Home she’ll be waiting there too, Always waiting.