The Bridge


Back and forth, I walk the bridge every Saturday and Sunday at 10 a.m. where he once set his easel with back to the sun (to catch the walking shadows). “That’s where our life begins and ends,” he said and squeezed my hand with such intent I knew he wanted me at his side, always, gliding past the Seine—our images mirrored in water, the sun leaving shapes underfoot. We walked and walked until his hold loosened, and quietly we stepped to separate sides. His voice drowned in the whisper of those passing—my fingers fretting, dampness circling my eyes. 

by Chella Courington 

 


 


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