The
bridge, down the hill from the
elementary school. It was past the edge of the world, then, just visible down the path from the schoolyard and
forbidden. Then in
high school, I started going there at night, to smoke.
The bridge goes over a rocky creek, surrounded by trees that shelter the space and make the whole world wilderness, from there. You can stand on the bridge and look at the moon, the only light. I found out there that you can almost be blinded by the moon.
A mythology grew up around the bridge. You only come to the bridge when you have a question. You come there especially when the question defies words. You come there and you stand against the rail until the question is answered.
First you walk to the centre of the bridge, and face the eastern side. You light a cigarette, and listen to the smoke rise. Now you must answer honestly: Do you have anything to throw off of the bridge? I have thrown into the water, in a symbolic letting go, a pen, a pack of cigarrettes, and a photograph.
Now finish the cigarette and you are ready to go underneath. It is dark and wet at night, and you can see trolls if you're afraid. But once you sit, and begin to watch the water, fear and time are gone. You stay there as long as you need to.