creatures

Keyhole Bridge

Keyhole Bridge

2017

I stood near the river, assessing the old bridge, afraid to get too close. It had been 19 years since I had been back, had been this close to the bridge. My stomach knotted, and I questioned why I was here. I had done so well, making sure to never come near, rarely ever coming back to Mandrea Springs, much less this close to my childhood nightmare.

 

After I got “better”, a systematic act of pretending to forget, it was still too fresh to think of returning. Besides, my parents had moved me halfway across the country and there was no longer a reason to go back. No one believed what I remembered anyway. They looked at me with pity, calling it trauma. As the years slipped by me, it became more of a measured reaction, a plan, an obsession really. To keep myself from sinking again. Now I was 32, and I reasoned that I had nothing to prove, I had come back from there. But the bridge still called me sometimes, in my dreams and in waking hours. Sometimes I couldn’t help the needing to know, the sharp desire to understand. It sat like a small rat in my belly, gnawing just frequently enough to remind me it was there. I was no longer living halfway across the country.

All Better

All Better

I grew up in a small town, so I was never afraid of playing outside, even alone. Once I had a child, I felt comfortable with her playing outside as well. Our lawn was partially fenced and opened into a small expanse of woods. Sammy was a smart, independent 5-year-old, and knew not to stray too far. Maybe it was wrong, but I let her play in the backyard alone. I checked on her frequently, and there had never been a problem. It was a sunny Saturday, warm for Spring, and she asked to go out just as soon as she was done with breakfast. As a freelance artist, I had a lot to do, and welcomed a break. She bounded upstairs to get dressed.