The maw of the yellow bridge stares back at me, reminding me of the times that I had to ford across it. Crossing a bridge in the winter is unlike any other experience; it’s the farthest thing from pleasure that I can imagine. When I see the bridge, I’m reminded of the street it leads to and from. Where it goes, I don’t really have many good memories of. But the bridge is, at best, a marker of my bearings downtown. I measure everything in distance from the bridge; in terms of steps but mostly, in regard to where I am in life.

Photo - N
Words - S