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Rated: E · Prose · Emotional · #1860657
Sometimes our loss is small compared to that of other things.

There were still covered bridges when I grew up.
No one had thrown themselves off into suicide.
They just were not tall enough or built for that.
They were built for love, moments and memories.

I had the privilege of hearing clacking footsteps of horses,
and it made me think of yesterdays.
Buggies with whips and children not yet dirtied by society.
laughs with such a fragrance, of what it used to be.

I wish I could jump aboard, say I was one of them.
but I knew a buggies whip would soon cast me off.
And no matter how much I cried to be a part of it,
they all said the same thing. It's not you.

I was a builder and had the ability to make my own.
Had the love, memories and desire to be all of that.
No matter how hard you try, to be a part of something,
in the end; you're simply not them.

So I pass bridges, with smiles and frowns, a few tears,
then tell my friends; " nothing is wrong."
I believe they are bridges, with wishes.
The place where dreams are born and die.

Why I decided to stay, sometimes until dark?
I don't know why. Perhaps it was the way the sun settled,
and went down forever the same on us here.
And without a sound, my tears met all those others.

The roads once held many, but now vacant loners;
guessing what might have been or what was, no matter.
Cicadas hollering until sunset; Spring Peepers in unison but alone.
And carved names of ones who lost and found love here.

The paper says they will tear down the last few soon,
my penknife in hand, I wanted to leave my mark.
As I carved first my name to announce I was here;
I realized, there was no one to put next to my name.

So I asked God to remember me;  like the timbers and history those held,
And when cars came racing across, would he holler my name out.
And if no one stopped to inspect the last bridge.
Please ask Him to bring a flood to wash us downstream.

S A Gibbins  2012

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