I like driving over the second bridge at night. After a win, or after a loss. Approaching the slow blinking red lights at the top of the bridge makes the world seem afloat-makes the world seem slow and penetrable. The snow curling around the long metal cables disappear like plumes of old dusty smoke. Here I feel small, but here I feel the natural order of things. Knowing the bridge connects a lonely divide, where underneath the heartbeat of a sleeping, frozen lake swooshes in and out, waiting for the thaw.
And my car climbs the quiet small of the night: flooding the bridge with tears of youth, flooding my youth with tears of age.