The old bridge runs alongside the new. Like a shadow of my past crossings, it’s a stark reminder that nothing in this world is permanent. Piece by piece, they disassemble the steel, and each morning I glance over my right shoulder to see how much more of it is gone. Gone, relegated to our memories.
Not to get all Benjamin Button here, but it’s an incredibly powerful thing – with each day I drive on the new bridge, it becomes less new, and at the same time the old bridge becomes less, well, there. It’s a paradox that makes my commute interesting, to say the least, and it’s not that unlike raising my son. With each morning, I watch him grow, and at the same time, I inch nearer to, well, the end.
My thought isn’t meant to be morbid. We are all headed to where old bridges go, I’m afraid. The silver lining certainly has to be the journey. The journey that makes up our memories, and the memories of others. It’s that, and the ability to say “I remember when.” I remember when I crossed an old double decker bridge. I remember when I could hold my son in one hand. I remember when crossing a bridge was an adventure in its own right. I remember when.