When the Smoke Clears

The path is difficult—fraught with slippery spots and broken boards. It was not always this way. Still, the journey is worth the effort. We exchange news, goods, gifts, and help in times of trouble. But years of passage without repair have a price. I begin to make the trip less often. A misstep now can be deadly. With erosion, the distance seems wider. Little holds the pathway fast. The boards are rotted; the space underneath is dark and foreboding.

When the smoke clears, I wipe my charred hands on the fresh green grass. I will not miss the bridge.