not burnt, just toasted

this bridge is just about one hundred years old. not quite as old as my great-grandmother. officially they call it the Lethbridge Viaduct--via for 'road' and duct for 'to carry.' this one in particular carries trains across the coulee and the river.

I wonder about all the bridges that brought me to where I am. whatever it was that carried me, pushed me into this moment. there are pages of yesterdays holding it up, caverns of what if making room for the next day.

I am not a train. these bridges beneath me are so much more temporary than one built one hundred years ago. so much less solid. yet I trust them. I have to.

it isn't just me, after all. that's the metaphor: the bridges between you and me, carrying back and forth ours words and opinions, they've got to withstand the weight of our ideas. it's the only way to get over the preconceptions, misconceptions. the loneliness. but we don't build them out of 12,400 tons of steel. what do we build them out of?

sometimes I lose sight, there are so many connections waiting either to be tied up or torn down, none of them ever truly beyond repair. what makes us so afraid?