9780008390662

another bridge
The creek is filled with pieces of trees, boards, trash cans, plastic chairs,
everything you can imagine. It’s moving way too fast for me to try to cross.
I stare at the far side of the creek, at the collapsed bridge. I really wish I
hadn’t seen that puppy.
I know there’s another way to cross the creek, of sorts, downstream a bit. An
old pedestrian bridge made of wood and metal and rope. No one uses it
anymore.
No one with any sense.
When I reach it, the little bridge is swaying like a cradle. It’s blocked off by a
rusty metal gate to keep people from using it, but I can easily squeeze
through the bars.
I run halfway across, lose my footing, run some more.
Gulp. What am I doing?
A fresh gust pushes the bridge with such force that I slip. Half my body is
dangling off the edge. I dig my claws into the wet wooden slats, and oh am I
glad my nails are long and sharp because I fight off Sara’s clippers whenever
I can.
Pulling, pulling, pulling—man, I wish I hadn’t eaten so much cheese over the
years—and then umpph, one last effort and I’m back on the bridge.
It feels good, so good, to return to that little stretch of swinging slats. I want
to live. Really I do.
I don’t care about the puppy anymore.