On Bridges

Bridges have never been a thing for me, and that stems from having grown up in the flat delta region of the southernmost tip of Texas, the Rio Grande Valley. My first impressions were of small bridges over canals which technically are bridges but aren’t impressive at all. From my earliest memories, there was a long bridge that connected us over a resaca between my hometown and my father’s place of work in the next town over. The bridge was made of large concrete slabs that at every seam made our car bump us up twice in the seat, one for the front axle and one for the back axle. We had even gone over the massive bridge that connected us to South Padre Island, and my mother was scared of it so we were scared of it too.

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that bridges took on the symbolism that I was taught in literature. Here now was a metaphor, a location to contemplate life going forward, and a place for reflecting and coming to terms with the life you’ve had until this moment. How every story seemed filled with metaphor and meaning. How unlike my life that seemed when I stood at bridges and felt nothing.

But now, having crossed so many physical and metaphorical bridges in my life, they again have come to mean a way to bridge a gap. Bridges have become real and meaningful to me.

They are the connectors of all the things humans need. The same way ants overcome a torrential flood and use their bodies to make the bridge so the rest of the colony has safe passage. They forget to be ants. There is a back road that leads to my wife’s place of work. We learned about it riding our bikes. At one point, the road dips deeply and with enough speed you make it up the other side. The very bottom is only minimally raised above a creek bed. One summer a few years ago, a flash flood completely washed away the road. When it was rebuilt, it became a bridge. Gone was the dip in the road. My wife and I drove on the bridge on the day it was officially opened. Some local politicians showed up for a picture; the police were there to escort one side, and a firetruck led the other. The parade of cars was only about 10 deep on either side but we all drove it and smiled and waved at each other in a civil manner. How quickly we forget the sacrifice and toil that went into making that bridge. You can’t even tell anymore. It’s just a bridge.

And the way some bridges have become obsolete, how is it the gap they connect has not changed? I know of a secret bridge just outside of town. It is a narrow footbridge of rusted metal beams and rotted, weatherworn wooden slats. Wild mustang grape vines cover it up, and until you get used to looking for it, you will miss it every time. Past the shoulder of the road, the grass grows tall but there is a path that leads to this bridge. I can’t imagine what would make it appealing to walk on it other than curiosity about the view. Is there water still below it? Will problems float away? It looks like the kind of bridge only a kid would know about because the grownups are too busy to stop. Maybe troubled kids. Maybe the creek bed below is full of cigarettes or beer cans or broken vape cartridges or one lost shoe or broken souls. I wonder what was out here before that a footbridge was once needed. The gap remains.

And last of all is the gap that erodes and changes the landscape of humanity. How badly we want the bridge that will connect both sides and let people travel freely either way. No matter where we put that bridge, it becomes useless and the gap grows somewhere else. I don’t like bridges because we weren’t meant to live on them, but we always seem to want to build another one. If bridges aren’t taking you to a physical destination, if you’re looking for more than that, trust me, you’re on a bridge with no destination. The problem with bridges is when you aren’t on one, you realize the real problem is that we weren’t meant to live under them either.