In my hometown, there’s this green bridge that crosses over this river. It’s not much. Not much at all. But this bridge, the kissing bridge, could quite honestly be my favorite place on earth.
I’m sure if it could talk, it’d tell the most vibrant stories.
For as long as I can remember, it’s been there. And long before that, it was somewhere else. It’s endured a several mile move, involving trucks and cranes. I can just imagine the people it took to get it settled into its new home. I remember taking pictures with my cousins on this bridge when we were little, all snaggle toothed but still grinning. I wish I had those pictures to share, but they’re more than likely tucked in an old suitcase at the foot of the bed in the guest room at my parent’s house. I remember many cross country practices running across this bridge, hearing the wood pound beneath our feet. Always confident that the sturdy, old bridge would hold our weight.
It’s just off the main highway that runs through town. There’s a few concrete picnic tables and a grassy area. But nothing more. Somedays, you can find some boys fishing for minnows. Or some barefoot children wading through the ankle deep water. You could tell how bad a storm was by how much of the bridge was covered with muddy red water. The town flooded once, years ago, and the bridge was covered for what seemed like forever. When the water receded, the bridge was still there. Covered with debris, but still there.
-Meredith Grey, Grey’s Anatomy