By Anthony Duraski
When we run under bridges how can we be sure we aren’t running into someone’s last breath? Is the bridge the bridge they never crossed — the life they never could’ve had.
Three years ago my older brother died while bungee jumping off a bridge like it was no big deal. In a freak accident where the plank that was holding the hook for his line snapped off as if it was never nailed to the rest of the grounding system. I watched his face beam and also frown as he faced us while falling off the edge, a small hop taking him farther away as I was putting on my helmet. Next thing I knew, my vision was blurry as I fell forward towards the drop-point. My arm flew out and managed to grab the very last guardrail before nothing, slowing myself down enough for someone else to grab my leg and pull with all of their might and grunting grossly, but not before my brother’s face was etched into my mind. Arms reaching up, legs not even flailing.
Sometimes my nightmares drag us to space, and I watch him fly off into the endless quasars of the cosmos. Sometimes I wish I flew after him, to visit the stars and to feel the weight.