We Take Turns

Heading downtown there's a bridge that's a work of art. There's a spine that travels across the span of the bridge. It's dynamic. It's beautiful. It is you on your side with your spine carrying me down your back. The bridge takes it all. Every tire. Even the shoes. Everything steps on the bridge, and the bridge keeps all of it from falling into the water.

I look at you in my mind's eye, and I want to fall into the water. You are sleeping in the water. I wonder how dark the water is for you when you're asleep. When your eyes are closed. You are warmer than a bridge. I don't know how many have traveled across you. I know that I find it difficult to do anything but stop in the middle of you. I don't want to get to the other side.

I think I could rest my head on your belly. I would listen to you breathe. I want to hear the squeaking in the rumbling of your organs. The way the wind pushes the bridge this way and that. When you're up there you don't know that you're moving sideways. Your spine supports you, but I feel supported, too. And when you breathe you sway. It is like the wind is moving you from the inside out. I can feel you swimming in your dreams. And even if your nighttime is dark, your dreams are all in color.

We have not known each other for as long as this bridge has been here, but we have each known bridges in different places, holding different people, keeping everything from falling down. You keep me safe like this. I cross the ugly parts because of you. You keep me from falling down. My fair lady. My one and only friend.

Your voice fills the cabin of my car. We are talking this way, moving through space and air. Clouds race from where you are to me. It’s humbling. There is an exciting danger to it that you find familiar like a mole on your wrist or a nightmare. But for me it’s so dangerous that often I refuse to take the call. I want to be the only thing that moves me. I need to pace when I talk to you. I don’t like crossing bridges with only your voice.

“There is a list of names and ‘Sarah’ is always last.” A sigh, It travels from your mouth to the air to my ear.

“True.” Pause. “I need to sleep. I need to go to sleep for longer than I have ever slept.”

“This is that time when they say ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’ They never tell you how much better it is to sleep in the middle of life. Like the bridge I am driving across as we speak.”

I was only in the middle for seconds, but that’s enough. Your back is strong, and yet now it starts to break rather than bend. You used to sway. You used to resist the wind. And now the wind is whispering, “stop.”

“Yeah. It’s time I listened to my body. It’s funny, you know. I just crossed a bridge, too.”

“I am heading downtown.”

“I am going west.” Oh, Sarah. Beautiful tall Sarah. You used to swim competitively. That’s why you’re never scared to cross any bridge in the universe. You know how to take a fall. How to plunge. For me it’s about the trust I have in making it from end to end. You’re always in the middle, and I am always in the air. I fall but you float. Another kind of stroke. Breast. Back. Butterfly.

“I’m home.” I sit in my car, listening to you breathe. Listening to the noises your car makes when you don’t speak. When you hold your breath. Finally....

“Do you ever worry you’ll crash?”

“All of the time. That’s why talking while I drive scares me. My brain does three things. Drive. Talk. Imagine. I see you where you are. I see your body and limbs and lips. I hold you up, Sarah. The best I can.”

“You do. I feel it. I don’t have to be forever with you. I can let go, you know?”

“Bridges don’t break until they do. And then it’s all over.”

“Birds are lucky. I think about that. I envy them. Nothing breaks their backs. They just soar over it.” Another pause. I hear your breath crackle. “I used to pretend I was a bird. Even in the water. I never imagined I was a fish. Always a bird.”

“That’s why the water doesn’t scare you.”

“Yes. I always had air in my lungs. It was air, the water. I went through it, and it went through me.”

I stop looking or thinking about anything but you. My mind lets that happen. It’s a type of love. Another stroke. Love stroke.

“I’ve got to get this stuff from my car into the house. I’ll call you later?”

“Mmmm, it’s okay. You need to sleep.”

“I need to collapse. I look awful.” Rearview mirrors make terrible portraits. “I look like something your cat dragged in.”

“My cat could never catch you, Sarah.”

I hear you fall back into the leather of your seat. I know your bones want to settle. You never looked more beautiful. I don’t have to see you to know this. My mind is fully yours. For you. I rarely get everything lined up like this. I am your bridge. You can fall into me. I’ll keep the cars and the walkers up. I’ll catch your crumbling.

“I used to have such a good memory. I never forgot a drop. Not now. Derek, I forget things. It’s awful to know that my mind is failing.” I know this feeling. I want to open my door, but that will cut the cables between us. We take turns being the bridge. “What would I do without you?”

“Go sleep. Forget. It’s okay to forget. To fall out with the slippery memories. You’ll wake up when you're dead, and the air will flash around you. You'll fly or swim. Either one. It’s all the same.”

“I guess it is. I guess I will.”

Sleep, my friend. Look what the cat dragged in, but then stop. Close your eyes. I’ll stay awake for you. I’ll be the bridge tonight and tomorrow. You don’t have to swim tonight, Sarah. You can fly.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” We hang up, but the cables stretch across the city. We suspend it all.