The Bridge

Slightly chilly, yet warm; scary, yet comforting; confusing, yet clear. The place I am describing has little or no significance to most people. Nevertheless, I hold for it a special place in my heart.

A bridge. A simple ramp-like bridge, made of wood and cement, located in a place that I can call “a home away from home.” Through the eyes of an average person, it may look ugly and dirty. Through my eyes, I see a place in which I can express my thoughts, and dream. I see a place in which I can be calm and peaceful. I see a place that I used to hate.

What could be so scary about a bridge? Walking across it, feeling the humid breeze pass by, and feeling it creaking slightly under your feet. The trees around brush your face lightly, and the tall grass gently sweeps your ankles. What seems simple enough to cross was torture for me.

Fainting by the edge… hitting my head… waking up from compressions… choking on water… smothered in a gas mask… lifted onto a stretcher… hearing the sirens of an ambulance… stabbed with an I.V needle…

Weeks passed by, and I always managed to find an alternative route, rather than walking on the bridge. Trampling through mud and dirt, getting bitten up by mosquitoes, and feeling the strong, sticky heat rush into my head always seemed like a better option than crossing the bridge.

One day, realizing that enough was enough, I decided to cross it. Step, by step and inch by inch, I made my way across. Sweat was dripping down my face and tears were streaming down my cheeks. My legs were shaking violently and my friends were cheering me on. And you know what? I did it.

As time went on, the bridge became my comfort zone. I shared many conversations there, I shared laughter and tears there, and I said goodbye to my camp there. It was the place where I would contemplate, looking at the beautiful trees, admiring the tall grass, and staring into my bunkhouse through the window. I now realize how lucky I am that I found my place. And it was all because I crossed the bridge.