Notes About The Poem
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BRIDGE TO HINDSIGHT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the bridge isn't stone.
not iron latticework humming with trains.
not even that splintered wood plank
across the creek just beyond my childhood home.
It's quieter~
a slant of afternoon sun catching dust motes
in the attic of my mind.
I climb the stairs~
why did I say that?
why didn't I go?
if only...
each step groans with the weight of *what if*~
the handrail feels slick with polished regret.
halfway across, I pause.
below, the river churns with versions of myself:
the one who stayed,
the one who left too soon,
the one clutching certainty like a fraying rope.
the far shore gleams clear, impossibly calm.
I know what waits there~
wisdom, smooth as river stone.
but the bridge only goes one way.
I can't carry today's shoes back to yesterday's mud.
can't shout warnings through the thickening fog
of memory.
so I stand, breathing the damp air
of almost-understanding.
I watch the current swirl the past into patterns
that almost make sense.
Almost.
the bridge remains aching and empty
leading only to the place where I finally see
the shape of the hole my choices left behind.
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