1. In the Dark, Eyes Closed, Whispering
It is late at night, that first time, you and Violet still learning each other as you cross the ramshackle covered bridge that spans this rural stretch of the broad Willamette River. The air is still and cool, the trickle of water the only sound other than your low voices
You’ve only been together a week but already it feels like forever. You can’t picture anything but this: the two of you hand in hand, step by step feeling your way forward into a beautiful future.
That’s why you’re here, right? Crossing the bridge at midnight exactly, eyes closed tight so the spirit that’s supposed to guard it can keep you in its sight and help you stay together.
Violet stumbles on a loose plank when you’re almost all the way across, a startled yelp that makes your heart clench for one breathless moment. But you’re there for her—you always will be, won’t you?—and before she can fall, you tighten your grip and pull her close.
I can’t help it. You’re both so gorgeously in love that I whip up the wind, send it rushing over the waters to knock petals from the apple trees, and pull them through the gaps in the bridge in a whistling storm of scented mischief.
The two of you stare wide-eyed at one another and then up into the eaves of the roof. I wonder if you’ve realized I’m watching, but then you run the last few steps and burst into helpless laughter as you collapse in the cool, damp grass on the far shore.
2. In Dappled Light
The next time, it is daylight—a brilliant summer afternoon, the skies clear after an unseasonal downpour, the cicadas screaming out to one another in the sultry heat.
Violet is wearing a pale blue tuxedo, and you a white gown complete with veil. You exchange vows quietly, but with an intensity none could miss, and then she sweeps you off your feet into a passionate kiss. You have brought friends, and as I call up a playful breeze to blow your hair around you, they cheer so loud the bugs go quiet in wonder.
One thing is the same: after the ceremony you cross my planks together, hand in hand.
3. Too Slow, Too Late
I will never know what brings you here in the midst of a windstorm so strong the river’s water slosh over the railings, making the planks of my bridge slippery and slick even as it shakes my foundations.
You are not together this time, that is certain. Violet arrives first, stagger-running in the wind and wet, her face a picture of fury and dismay. You follow at a distance, your own expression despairing but determined. You cry out to her, and she turns to face you, screaming something back, but it is lost to the wind before even I can make out the words.
Then it happens, that moment you will punish yourself with for so long.
As Violet stomps away, throwing her hands up, the timbers give out. Fully half the bridge collapses in a slurry of moss and wood and rot, and the last things you see are her outstretched hands and the shock in those eyes you have looked into so often.
I try to save her, try to stop her from tumbling into those turbulent waters, but I am as helpless as you.
4. Alone.
It is late at night, that first time, and you should not be here.
Everything is raw, still, and fresh. Her absence a fist in your belly as real as the missing sections of the bridge. You stagger to that ragged edge, where shredded warning tape trails limply in the river, and drop to your knees with a sob.
I should push you away.
I should call down a gale and make you leave this lonely, broken place.
But all I can manage is a mournful breeze, which whistles through the gaps in the bridge in high, keening grief as you pound one fist against the splintered wood and call her name over and over.
5. Never Alone.
You are one of the strongest voices on the committee to repair the bridge, talking down the county officials who call it a hazard and an eyesore. Telling them your tragedy would be all the more painful without this place you both loved so much.
For that, I am thankful. But even more, I am thankful for all the times you return, all those crossings of the river you make without Violet at your side.
Each time, I am with you. Observing. Watching. Bearing witness to your passing.
I listen as you draw each shaking breath. As you cry. As you stop mid-crossing to rest your hand on a railing and look out the high, narrow windows, whispering your fears and your worries and your triumphs as you try to move forward alone. (You are never alone, not truly. I hope you know that, somewhere deep inside.)
Your visits grow less frequent with time, and of that, too, I am thankful. But always when you come, I am with you: the latent energy of centuries of crossings.
Sometimes, I do more than listen.
A distortion of light. A sudden shadow that calls her to mind. The echo of the river’s smooth passage is a whisper in your ear; a fragrant breeze rests like a hand against the small of your back; the creak of wood underfoot is a memory of laughter urging you onward.
Each time, after you cross and cross again, you wear a faint, sad smile and whisper, “See you next time.” You brush your hand against the time-worn railing and return to the world, your life rushing ahead like the waters passing a bend in the river none can see beyond.
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Ⓒ Stewart C Baker