Happy Bridge

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What part of town do you live in?

Oh, you live there. I lived there for a while.

How much did you pay?

Now that I think of it, I don’t know how I ended up in that building.

Did you ever go drinking at the Hollow?

How many people are you dating?

We might have passed each other every day and not known it.

Now that I think of it, I remember you.

One side of the bridge is sky thick slate and the other is sky pink gauze. At the top of the bridge, nine large hand-knit quilts are firmly roped to the bridge’s red cross beams. The quilts are in recognition of the city’s many bridges and the many—the many—homeless who sleep under them.

My boyfriend gave me a large crocheted quilt this year for Valentine’s Day. He was riding a train and saw a sweet older woman furiously knotting up the bright lines. He asked her what made her do it and she said that she was trying to stay clean. All her hope, you see, went into the flash of her fingers.

(I typed bride, not bridge, just now. Typo corrected.)

My fingers are of average flash. Sometimes, they surprise me.

If I fall back in park grass and look up at pine trees, I see my mind up among the needles.

With a good sense of rhythm, you can predict human speech.

Have you ever watched a young animal sprinting full out and fall on its face because it misjudged the ground-to-paws distance?

We have the same old marvels: Baby talks, baby walks, baby marries. I like the baby frowning while opening and closing his hands.

I guess this is all just an argument for the voyeurs among us: I smile at a lot of kids. I even smile at animals. People act surprised when typically shy, smaller creatures run up to me. She isn’t normally that friendly. And then a wet nose touches my knee and leaves a spot.

Why does a smile, a higher vocal pitch, and a brain not-in-pines soothe the young, the shy, the fragile?

What’s the most you’ve ever paid for car insurance?

Have you tried the Whole Food’s special, gluten-free pasta? It’s on sale.

There was a man on the bus to a town far from the city who told elaborate stories about wildlife. He talked about a deer he had hit with his car, thereby wrecking the automobile, and the deer. That’s good eatin, a young construction worker commented. He was standing at the back door and waiting for his stop. But the man shook his head. No, no, no. The deer wasn’t killed. The man had wanted the tow-truck driver to tow both his wrecked car and the wrecked deer back to the city, but the driver refused and, instead, pulled out a revolver to finish off the animal.

That deer did nothing wrong, the man said over and over.

Every time a living creature touches me, I am shocked/semi-delighted. I picture my brain in a safe, and the brain is connected to the meh bone that connects to the, like, rest of the mess. But I suppose ladybugs and tiny animals don’t know about the safe.

So, I glided over the bridge and thought about taking a picture of the quilts. Picture flattens movement. And these quilts were undulating with the wind. The knitter of these masts made her knots nautical tight so maybe these quilts would not fray, though that sort of thing would seem to be inevitable.

We should have a separate compartment in the safe for the pictures we can’t take.

2 thoughts on “Happy Bridge

  1. Like always, cool and easy flowin’. Beautiful, sequenced and entertaining. I love how you can take everyday interactions and paint them into something magnified. Keep it up!

    Like

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