When I read your story (could Bridges happen today) and offered to reply I had no idea writing the ‘The Trouble With Bridges’ was about to send me on journey through time and places I had long since thought I’d forgotten to remember. It’s like pulling out my guitar tonight and picking up, ‘Worried Man Blues’, after my son said, “You haven’t played that in a long time”. “It has been a long time.”, I said sitting on the bed, and then my wife’s voice from the kitchen, “Why don’t you bring it out here.” Sitting on the sofa picking up where I left off (one of the things on my to do list when I turned 40 was get a guitar and learn to play it) somewhere between my fingers and the strings and the unconscious, between notes, between my daughter’s little fingers reaching over and strumming in once in awhile, it all came clear…”It takes a worried man, to sing a worried song…”
Writing this story worried me. In the obvious ways and some that well, maybe I’ll share one day but not right now. I have one of those memories that is like a polaroid camera with smells and sounds and as I read your story I saw the movie right there in front of me like it was the first time, like I was there, and I felt like the daughter opening the lid of that box she found in the bedroom closet. Or did I feel like the mother? Where to start, or should I say where to start again, since I have stopped counting the revisions of my reply. Post unpost, set to private so only I can see…stop. Where is this going? Please, let me tell you.
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