Past the cobblestone bridge...

... Did you ever notice how some memories always stick with you?  I really don't know why this is, and if you do, please explain - or rather don't because I think I secretly enjoy the mystical wonder of it all - but I guess what I'm really trying to say is that some moments in your life just really stick out to you, ya know? Like polaroids of my life, there are images I can't forget.  I'll get flashes where I can sense someone taking my picture as I stand in a blanket of sun scared leaves, the foliage shifting and re-settling beneath my feet as I cross the red, brown, and gold sea.  Or I'll be in the car, head lost in the sky, as my parents, aunt and uncle discuss something about a funeral arrangement as my cousins sit quietly next to me.  But out of all these snapshots, the image that constantly finds its way back into my conscious mind is the walk to my Grandfather's house.  I would leave my house, walking, as my mother watched on from the kitchen window, a freshly cleaned dish and drying towel in her hands.  The instant I got to the red mailbox, just down a bit on the hill, I would run.  I knew by then my mother's eyes had lost sight of my bobbing pony tail, and I would race as fast as I wanted, barefoot and wild, across pebbled roads and grass fields, until I came to that cobblestone bridge set over the big duck pond.  When I got there, I would stop.  For some reason there was something special, almost sacred, about this bridge.  My breathing would quiet, my pulse soften, my muscles calm, and I would wait for the exact moment when I was ready.  Then I would fly.  My feet would cycle faster and faster, my arms fling out to my sides, as if I had suddenly grown wings, and an open grin would settle on my face.  The tips of my fingers would stretch out and brush along the smooth, cold, blue stones that speckled the sides of the bridge, my fingers growing numb as I went.  My legs would brush past grass glowing from the sunlight calling down from above, making the tall, green stalks sway ever so gently.  Shadows of the surrounding trees would dance on my back, their branches tickling my skin without even having to touch it.  I would feel a breeze twist in and out of the strands of my hair, laughing as it flicked out through each end.  My mind would be lost somewhere back behind the worn down wooden beams of our shed.  Nothing existed.  Nothing but the feeling of pure, untainted, inexplicable bliss that enveloped my entire being.  When I hit the other side, I would keep running.  Down the curve in the path to my Grandfather's long driveway and open, welcoming arms.  I wouldn't stop running until I reached his beaming face, waiting for me, just outside his front door.


And now here I am again, standing at the starting point before the bridge, now grayer than I remember.  But I'm not running this time.  No, I want this moment to soak in and not rush by so fast like when I was younger.  


I still take a breath, because it's tradition, and steadily make my way across the bridge.  Instinctively my arms raise and feel the quiet brush of the stones.  As I pass the green stalks reaching up from the ground, they shift only slightly - or perhaps they didn't move at all.  A saddened sun plants kisses on my cheek, as if trying to coax out my grin that once reveled while on this bridge.  But I've lost that grin.  It faded when these moments became memories needed to be preserved - my Grandfather standing with the camera as I played in the leaves, my Grandfather's name being mentioned in and out of the discussion I heard in the car.  But now I've reached the other side and I can't remember what I'm supposed to do next.  I turn and gaze back at the sun shifting over the curves of the blue stones, wanting to turn back and start again, this time as my young, untroubled, childish self.  But it's been ten years to the day, and this time I won't be running into my Grandfather's open arms.  Though I truly wish I could...