- Created on Monday, 20 February 2012 23:17
I have lived next to this bridge as far back as I can remember and my time is nearly up. My memory is fading, becoming thin and scattered like fireflies tossed on a summer's breeze, but I still remember all those who crossed here in the shallows. I still yearn for my green tree-lined banks sloping down into the muddy brown water; when men still valued such things, from a time before concrete and iron came to rule. The nights were so young and hungry back then and even the naked warriors, painting their ferocity on their skins for all to see, feared to cross the river after dusk. I remember watching their children huddle for comfort around fires in the dark while they carried my stories across the great confusion between waking and sleep.
The finite allotment of time trickled so slowly back then, divvied up in great chunks between all who lived in the world. Now there are so many more people and the billions of shards of time are so much smaller; each generation with more years but so much less time.
I have lived next to this bridge as far back as I can remember and my time is nearly up. My kind belongs to the past, relegated now only to the handful of childrens' stories still read. I am neither happy, nor sad. Perhaps my apathy comes with the fading, but I am at peace with that.
If you stand very still on a quiet night and hold your breath between the rumble of the trains you may still hear me breathing or catch two pinpricks of light staring back at you. I have lived next to this bridge as far back as I can remember and my time is nearly up
... but not just yet.