And the bridge hung alone, upon the dried creek. When the
sun at its zenith, the shadow of the old stones did not play in the running water
anymore. At night, the moon did not reflect upon the changing times.
Yet, it was by the courtesy of passing days that the stones
kept the shape of that bridge. In the spring ephemerals bloomed between the
cracks of these stone block where a bit of the earth was trapped. Hepaticas and bloodroot made the bridge look
like an old woman going to her last friend’s funeral wearing a hat where dried
flowers were as old as she was.
I sat under that bridge often. After a rainy day, my senses were saturated
with the smell of wet time. Rocks, flowers, weed or dirt all spoke of time,
that tic-toc of the secret clock that is in all of us. I had the same feeling
when I visited my parents in the last years of their lives. They had seldom rewinded
that clock. They knew it will stop soon. And the smell of their apartment was
that of time caught behind the curtains they rarely fully opened. There was an
entire life hiding behind these curtains that separated them from the past and the
present.
The creek was already dry when I discovered that bridge.
But, to be a kid again, I often threw a pebble or a stone in that creek bed.
And in the mist of my memories, I saw the circle the pebble or stone made all
around them. These were the circles of our existence. Not perfect, sometimes
elliptic, these circles always closed upon themselves. The end of the line
touched its start. Like a snake eating its own tail.
It is raining today. Early tomorrow I will go and search for
that bridge. I am sure it exists.
April 21, 2020
©Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2020
