The Railway Bridge over the River

If ever the train does not pass over the bridge in the night he cannot sleep. Under the bridge the river slides green and slow, past the implacable mountains, the old town and the new warehouses, past the willow trees and the fishermen on the banks. There was once another bridge over this river but that was years ago and it pains his heart to remember it. He stood with his wife on that bridge the day of their silver wedding anniversary and he presented her with a pair of filigree earrings and she smiled as wide and tall as its stone arch. It grieves him to think of his wife because she too is gone like the old bridge. Instead, he concentrates on the rumble of the freight train, the solidness of it, not the ghost of his wife and the days of pounding sorrow, or the way the bridge crumpled under the weight of explosions, his wife collapsed in his arms.

There are two ducks on the river, a mallard and a hen. He watches as they follow each other through the eddies, as the sound of the train drifts off into the far distance.

They say there is money to repair the bridge. Next year, they say, it will be done. He will ask the doctor if they can repair his heart too. 

by Bronwen Griffiths