The Bridge
- Feb 1, 2019
- 3 min read
by Tintawi KaIgziabiher
Curvy, worn, sun-bleached, mud and straw bricks rise high, showing off their patina. Separated they would be unnoticeable. Stacked in their mysterious formation they artistically form an overly romanticized landmark. The skill of the masonry goes unnoticed by the younger generation. It is appreciated only by those old people who understand the arduous work involved in pouring adobe bricks. It is a testimony to the bricks’ strength that the bridge is still standing strong despite being weather-beaten and trekked on countless times by tired horses and overdriven cars. It is still the only unified link between the rural land and the new city. On its deck, facing the country, pass riders on horseback. In the opposite direction pass children who have outgrown the one-room schoolhouse, speeding off with their parents in flashy cars to the new school in the city. Even dump trucks trust the support of the ancient landmark. Backs loaded to capacity with six-plus tons of gravel, they too pass over the warm water four hundred feet below.
In this quiet moment after the morning rush, I get lost momentarily in the ancient maze of the bricks, briefly forgetting my reason for being here today. The cry of a raven on the other side calls me back to the present.
Under the bridge’s deck stand three broad arches wide enough to allow the passing of sailboats and the small fishing vessels that have sailed its waters for many, many years. When I was just a small girl, with torn tights from scaling trees, I sat straddled across my Popie’s lap while he rubbed salve on my cuts. He would complain about the traffic jams of the early 1900s.
I always found his stories unbelievable. My mind just could not picture a traffic jam at the turn of the century. Although proof of his stories can still be seen as the sun rises high overhead, exposing scars in the deck left by old metal wagon wheels. Near these cracks, tiny purple flowers burst forth announcing the age of their host. They do not mind the six-legged creatures that climb their stems wondering if there is a place for them too. Joining them are doves that make tatty nests under the bridge arches, hopping back and forth, twigs held firmly in their beaks, from the white willow trees that have embraced its underside. The foundation has only strengthened with time as summer winds blow sand into its crevices.
I wish the years had given me the will, the desire to keep going as the bridge has. It displays its usefulness while my life feels useless now. There is no one to call on me. No one for me to call. Everyone and everything I loved is gone. At this moment my old weary feet are grateful to be planted here on the deck, though with each passing minute the guardrail calls to me.
There is a small indigo sailboat in the river below. As it comes closer I imagine what the people on board must be doing…eating leftover chicken sandwiches and drinking ginger ale as the bridge above gives them welcomed moments of shade. I climb the lightly rusted guardrails, waiting for the boat to pass. My wrinkled, cocoa legs try hard to remain perched over wobbly feet. Popie must be twisting and turning in heaven watching me prepare to plunge into the water. He must know the great pain I have been in. We buried the last of my old Saturday night bid wiss sister friends. She selfishly died of a heart attack a month ago, and now it’s just me and the black widow that lives in the woodpile under my front porch. All my friends are now Popie’s companions and I also want to go. As the determined wind comes in to welcome the afternoon, I release my grip. My feet float in the air as I pray the wind carries me to the other side.
Tintawi KaIgziabiher is a woman of African descent born in the NJ/NYC Metro area. She writes to give a voice to women of color whose voices often remain unknown or go unnoticed. Seven years ago she moved to New Mexico where she lives with her husband and their 5 children, 5 chickens, 2 doves, and a leopard gecko. She is currently a full-time student working on finishing her degree in creative writing. She is a traditional birth attendant, activist, potter, writer, and an avid crocheter.
