In the spring, my father and I were driving a trailer rig to the veterinarian. I was driving, and riding in the trailer was Lorrie, our Arabian mare. It had been a typical trip winding down the Missouri back road blacktop that crisscrossed the prairie and rolling hills of the central plains. The scent of fescue and heavy dew rushed into the cab from the fields.
Cresting the rolling hills we were treated to a parade of mailboxes and fence posts and weathered barns stretching into the distance. Some turns were narrow and sharp, horseshoe bends twisting to miss a creek or tracing a property boundary. Other curves would suddenly bend more sharply as the pavement followed the path of the original dirt road where it once bent to miss a mud hole.
There are many bridges along the way, some are old and narrow with concrete railings. As traffic increased over the years and vehicles grew in size old bridges remain in place as relics still in use. Some are only wide enough for one vehicle to safely pass.
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There was one of these bridges on the way that day. It occurred after a bend in the road from both directions, where the oncoming traffic could not be seen until you were in position to cross.
As it happened that day, a Mack truck with a full load of feed was coming from the other direction when we approached the bridge. We both rounded the curves to find ourselves headed straight into a collision course. Because we were hauling a horse and trailer, we could not make a sudden change or brake violently without losing control. And there was no time for the oncoming truck to do the same.
We all entered the bridge together.
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There was no time to think. I never looked at the oncoming truck. I looked only at the concrete railing, an inch off of our right side and concentrated only on steering us across that narrow bridge with no room for error.
Although it all happened in an instant it felt like time stood still.
With the rush of passing steel and wheels that engulfed us there came an eclipse of the light around us. It was as if we were caught in a carnival ride that had broken loose, detached from time, spinning away and floating free. The music of our turning wheels had been whisked away and a strange hush fell on us instead. A silence so deep and heavy as if we had stepped out into space, without footfalls or address.
But there was no collision or contact.
When the sun returned, as if from another world, we looked at each other from the other side and with no words to speak or air to hear, our eyes asked,
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“What just happened…?”
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My father is ninety seven years old today. We’ve never spoken of the bridge, not then or in the forty years since. It is clear to me now that there was room yet for more roads to travel, that there would be much yet to come.
There would be more sunrises and birthdays, more spring foals and turkey seasons. More time for summer storms, for hay wagons and putting up hay. For icicles and falling snow. For weddings and grandchildren and great grandchildren. For opening our hearts to one another as our paths unfold, twisting and winding as they go. And time to break each other’s heart with the hard decisions that would test us. Time yet for every reason to live a lifetime.
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It’s a hard salute as we weather the years through change and loss. As our eyesight fails and our hindsight widens, as our limbs betray us and we find the true source of our strength.
As our hearing departs, leaving us in silence.
As our memories catch up with what is right before us, retreating into our hearts, recalling the past and remembering the future,
repeating, repeating, repeating
the Beauty of the Bridge.
