The girl inhales deeply as I watch her, as if she is trying to find a smell with which to always remember this moment. I am scanning her thoughts, completely aware of how peaceful she is in the midst of nature. It seems like her second home, the way she is sprawled on the banks of the river, her head resting on her hands, which in turn rest on the grass. Her eyes are half-closed as she relishes her solitude and the silence of mankind (thankfully, for both of us, too far away to make an impression on her ears.)

She’s been here for a few hours, taking in the afternoon sun, her pale skin reddening ever so slightly under the spring daylight. She sits along the edge of the river, her toes wrinkled from being left in the frothy blue water a bit too long. The river winds through a beautiful canyon, carved out by years and years of a strong current and resulting erosion. It has made for unimaginable scenery, though few venture far enough away from the main attraction to see it.

She decides to walk up the river, exploring a bit of her little slice of heaven, and the thoughts swirl in her head. She’s wandering this new environment as her eyes take in the surroundings in great detail. The red rock cliffs that rise to either side of her, the expanse of blue sky that peaks at her through the vast opening above, the clouds that she can shape into anything lucky enough to cross her imagination, the scurry of the critters that hide upon her approach. Stillness. She finds peace in this idea as her mind does nothing but focus on her immediate place.

Ahead of her, there is some sort of aged structure attempting to span the sky. It looks to have once crossed this broad valley, which she now feels to be a part of. She sits just below it, staring up at its few remaining bits and pieces. While her mind consciously takes in the different possibilities of its construction and its purpose, subconsciously she is searching for a way to ascend to the top, so that she might more closely inspect it. While her mind processes without her obvious input, she sees that there are many different types of boards at the outer edges. Closest to the right, a worn wooden piece that looks to be slightly rotted and quite unsteady. Aside it, a newer, cleaner, shinier piece of cherry wood. It reminds her of her dresser drawer at home. But who would use such fine wood in such an exotic location? Further out, she sees a cement or concrete slat that is haphazardly strapped to one side of rope. It, as well, seems rather out of place in such a rustic environment. As if someone accidentally left it nearby and the architect of the bridge nabbed it while that his head was turned for just a moment.

On the left side of the bridge, a similar hodgepodge mixture of wood begins along this edge. One piece is charred, another is broken in half, while yet another appears to be the strongest along the entire line. All of these planks hang along the side of the canyon wall, broken, torn apart from their mates along the first wall. She can almost define the slightest insignia upon the exposed side of each of this set of pieces. There are also strings of rope that completely cross the expanse, and bits of charred wood sometimes still hang to them. She wonders at the story this bridge could tell if only she could get it to talk.

I, on the other hand, hovering above her, know every minute of this bridge’s history. But I would never share with such an innocent.

Suddenly, the problem which has been searching for solution beneath the current of her mind has suddenly been found answer. Her diligent subconscious has located a small staircase a few hundred yards down the cavern. How anyone ever was able to construct it in the midst of this natural landscape, she cannot imagine. But she rushes over to it, clambering up it as quickly as she dares to go due to its fragile state.

Upon reaching the top, her breath is taken away and her immediate task absolutely forgotten. The view from the top is far beyond what her imagination could have conjured from any memory or vision she has ever seen. The chasm stretches for miles upon miles, as trees dot the edge of it. Some trees are new and young and vibrant, while others are mere stumps, dead for many years. The only house a good distance away, with smoke rising from the chimney. She is stunned at the reality that some lucky soul is able to consider this expanse his backyard. The bushes are flowering in their Spring beauty, and even the rocks cry out to their creator from their lowly spot upon the ground. She strolls towards the dilapidated bridge, all the while turning her head left and right, her body spinning around and around. She wants to take every particle, every reflection, every atom into her mind and paint a canvas there that will never fade. Even so, the replica would do no justification to the true view.

She heads immediately, now remembering her original plan, to the closest side of the old bridge, pulling up the heavy remnants to the side. Overwhelmed at the effort, she rests a minute and stares at the pieces in her hand; she is utterly confused at the construction. How can some of the pieces appear so new, others seem so old, and still others so fine, while their partners are so shoddy? This patchwork quilt cannot be reconciled in her mind. It is as if it was built with any sort of material one could find, over a long period of time. She imagines the owner of this land being poor and hoping for any bare scrap of wood he might discover to cross to the other side. But she is further puzzled at the fact that none of the pieces along this side have the original engraving she saw from the ground below. In fact, these are all diligently marked with a carved letter in the left corner. The letter doesn’t appear to be English, despite the fact that she is in the middle of America. She cannot make it out clearly, but she is beyond certain it is different from that along the far side. Could this bridge have had two creators? Could there have been a set of neighbors who wanted to meet on the bridge? Who wanted to visit each other frequently? Might they have slowly set about to engage in a friendship by means of one lonely bridge?

But if so, why were there indications of fire? The tree that sits along the far side is only a stump; it has been dead for many years. But she knows, without seeing it closely, that it was burned along with the bridge. She cannot fathom the reasons behind it.

She begins to plot stories in her head to explain these strange happenings. I laughed to myself at her creativity, but she was nowhere near the true story. It was my story. I lived this bridge in my lifetime, and as I stare across to the far banks and the burned, dead tree, I know he is watching and laughing at her, too. The recognition of his presence undoes me. I must leave and immediately. I am sad to leave her wondering and planning our pasts so diligently. I enjoyed her presence, but know that she shan’t return as her home is many, many miles from here. Maybe tomorrow, her final day in our area, she will find the path that will bring her back here and I can live in her happy, carefree thoughts for just a short while longer.

I depart from that area I had known so well, and remember the burning she created in her head (although I remember it as it happened.) I also remember looking back at sadness in my life. How we both had thought it the other’s fault; how we both were convinced we were the sole person attempting resolution. I remember how we each painstakingly nail another plank to the empty air, in hopes that we could recreate our bridge. And I recall how after not terribly long, we both gave up. Why he gave up, I cannot know. But I freed myself of the burden because I knew I had to leave first. I didn’t have any confidence that our feeble attempts to reach each other would succeed.

And so, I left him pounding away at another board, while I embraced my body’s (and possibly my soul’s) primal need for self-preservation. He thought I had gone for yet another piece of reconciliation - but I, I instead walked away.

This is how I was taught at a very young age: abandon before you are abandoned.