This Old Bridge

Madeline Rickard – Indy writer


If we were still friends, I’d text you about my day at least once a week


Give random questions and ramble on about whatever, and you would think to yourself, that’s just her.


My phone would be filled with you and I’d struggle to choose a contact photo, instead opting to change it every other day.


You might respond every once in a while and I’d be delighted to analyze whatever you meant until you could explain it later


Much, much later, after all you are a busy person and I can only have so much of your time of day . . . Or night. I’m not allowed that either.


But if we were still friends I’d wait the twenty four hour restriction each day and I’d look for a crack in the wall to peek through


Because if we were still friends I would say “hi” in the hallway


I would give you a gift on your birthday


I would save a brownie for you


I would ask about your new boyfriend, even if I couldn’t bother to remember this one’s name either


Because I would want to. And still some part of my thoughts dedicated to you attack my mind at these times


When I see you in the hallway

When I bake too much

Whenever you birthday comes around. . .


But we’re not friends so I skip the eye contact


It’s been a while since I realized this bridge I’ve been trying to hold up has fallen apart.


Denial has left me and I stopped gripping on to my lonely end, knowing cement is needed to keep these bricks of love from dropping


Now I try to cut bridges out of my journey

I tackle mountains, hills, and winding roads that travel the long way round.


I can see you in the distance across a roaring river of despair and I’m smart enough to not try jumping across

Because I know I would plunge down and get swept up away to who knows where


If you want the bridge to stand tall again, know this:


I’m staying off in the distance far away from the drama,

Not wanting the hurt,

Tired of the pain


But should you ever want to do so, I’ll give you the bricks

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