Quiet Crossing

The old bridge had been sitting inconspicuously for ages, perhaps centuries, at the edge of the wood. It is a simple structure made of a weather-beaten stone and wood overrun with moss. It also carries the load of ethereal memories-whispers from the past that wander through clears out, on the wings of breezes. For so many years, I passed it, never stopping and always rushing on with the demands of life. Right now is different. Something about it calls me, pulls me as if the bridge itself has just been waiting for me.

I hesitated at the entry, hearing the soft sound of the stream below mingled with the rustle of leaves. The air smelled of pine and earth, cool and soothing. There was no one else there with me, save for the soft murmurs of nature around. It was that kind of quiet that invited reflection-the kind that made one stop to listen to the subtle beat of the world.

As I set foot on the bridge, the very foundations it was constructed of creaked as if reverberating through the forest in addition to the sound itself. By one way or another, my steps appeared to be weightier, as if the bridge was inquiring me to take my time, to slow down. I looked over the railing, upon the waterway streaming slowly beneath. The sun shined upon the water, transforming it into silver strands. Breathed deeply, holding it all in-the quietness, the calmness, the timelessness of the moment.

This bridge had seen so much. It had withstood terrible storms, floods, and witnessed the changing of seasons. This bridge has seen different generations of individuals walk through it, each one bearing their own tales, their own journeys. Some crossed this bridge in a hurry, excited to get to the other side, while others maybe waited just like me, feeling the drag of something more profound. It was a quiet crossing, a place for reflection, a moment to connect with what was and what may be.

I could remember my grandma since she would take me many times as a child to cross this bridge. Walking hand in hand, her stories flowed just like the branch of the water below us. "This is a very quiet crossing," she would say in a low voice, almost reverentially, "a place to stop, reflect, remember." I always thought she meant it literally--a little stop along the way. But here I was alone; I understood her words differently.

Memories flooded back-there was her tender, husky laugh, her warm hands helping me across the bridge, and nearness so afield that I never mentioned it. But she was gone now. I wanted her to see me standing here on the same spot where she once stood, looking over the same river, breathing in the same air. I wondered if she had felt the same attachments and the peace while crossing this bridge years later.

I had closed my eyes for a moment, allowing the memories to engulf me. The wind, the distant cries of birds, and the murmuring of the stream became one united song of harmony. It was as if time had slowed down, and for that brief moment, I was connected not just to the bridge or river but to everything that had come before me.

Then I opened my eyes and looked again at the stream. It was time: the waters were flowing, and so I was not stagnant, too. Life continued, always moving, always changing. Just like the bridge, I had such moments of grace and peaceful crossing when I could slow down and reflect on where I had been and where I was headed.

I come to the final part of the bridge and turn to look back at it. The tall

bridge measures silently and unyielding; it is an nonspeaking audience to all that has happened and all that will. My esteem comes for this, for this moment of tranquility, this tie to the past, and the voyage ahead.

I walked away, with the memories of the bridge infiltrated within me. Life would keep on going, but moments of calmness would always come in between; moments to stop, remember, and ponder. The calm passage would always be there to wait for me.