The old man turned off the country road and into the parking lot, gravel crunching under the tires of his mostly pale-blue sedan, a car his grandfather bought brand new almost 80 years ago, now showing its age in dents and chipped paint.
It had been a rough few days: lots of bad news, some political, some personal. Sleep had been fitful. Although the doctor had warned against taking them too often, his bottle of anxiety medication was running low.
He peeked in the rearview mirror at his clean-shaven face, then climbed out of his car, slowly, trying to hide the movement of his stiff joints, in case anyone was looking … although his was the only car in sight. He opened the trunk, grabbed his favorite floppy hat and carefully positioned it on his head, after sweeping back his long gray hair. Blowing the dust off his round wire-rimmed glasses, he slid them back on, then leveled them with both hands.
It felt good to be out of that lonely, memory-laden house.
Standing as tall and straight as he could, he walked down the old road in his threadbare jeans and clean white shirt toward the red covered bridge. There was something compelling about that dilapidated structure, with its faded paint and rusted roof, now just part of a small park and no longer capable of handling traffic.
As he reached the bottom of the hill, he saw his favorite bench, up and off to his right. The bridge was down and to his left, surrounded by trees, flush with bright yellow-green leaves. He paused for a moment, indecisive. His body tried to pull him up that green-grass hill toward the bench where he could rest for a while, but his mind wanted one more quick look inside that bridge, one more look at all the carvings left there over the years on those rough wooden walls.
His mind won that battle, as it always did.
Gravel crunched under his Vietnam-era combat boots, turning to the light clop of rubber soul against wood as he entered the structure. The meandering creek slowly babbled along a few feet below. He walked around, eyes wandering, looking for any message he might have not seen before. Decades of lover’s thoughts and dreams were carved there, covered over by multiple coats of paint. The old man’s imagination floated freely, letting him feel young again, as though he was there inside that bridge many long years ago, with his blessed bygone love … carving her name into that wood.
The old man’s fanciful thoughts were interrupted by a horn honking in the distance. Perhaps more visitors had arrived at the little park, and he was no longer there alone. If it was a family with a bunch of kids, he didn’t want to be there inside that bridge as they raced around, like kids tend to do. So, the old man turned and left, heading toward his favorite bench, where he would silently observe the new visitors and look down on the bridge.
As he stepped out into the sunlight, he immediately noticed that everything seemed different, newer, greener, fresher. The sun was above the trees now and shining directly down on him, standing there on the gravel. Perhaps that was it. A warm sun on a clear spring day makes everything seem better.He made his way up the hill to the bench, walking carefully, trying not to look like an old man stumbling up the hillside, and feeling as though he was doing a fine job of it. He reached the bench, a little out of breath, as he usually was when walking uphill.
Sitting down on the bench, he closed his eyes, breathing deeply; not out of necessity, but more from a desire to feel that fresh spring air inside his old lungs. Minutes went by. Sitting there, eyes closed, on that quiet Sunday morning, the air slowly filled up with the sounds of people, the sounds of a horse-drawn wagon, folks talking, children laughing. Something didn’t seem right.
He opened his eyes.
It was not his imagination. The gravel and asphalt were gone, replaced by hard mud, replete with footprints, hoof prints, and slim wheel ruts. The old bridge looked brand-new, its red paint and silvery tin roof shining in the morning sun. Folks in their Sunday go-to-meeting clothes went by, some on foot, some on horseback, and a few in horse-drawn wagons and carriages. A Ford Model TT truck followed along behind, its bed cram packed with kids.
Everyone seemed happy, joyful.
The old man watched silently as they went past him and through the shiny red covered bridge. No one noticed him, each one intent on reaching that spot on the hill where church bells chimed.
After a few moments, the air became quiet again. From his bench, the old man peered into the shadows of the covered bridge. He could barely make out the figures of a young boy and girl, just teenagers trying to steal a few moments alone before heading off to church.
The old man’s head was swirling; he could almost feel the boy’s pocketknife in his hand. The boy was carving something into the inside wall of the bridge, with the girl looking on. When he finished, he stepped back, admiring his work. The girl let out a little squeal and wrapped her arms around him, stretching up to kiss him.
The kiss was brief and innocent. The young couple turned and walked away, hand in hand.
“Sir? Hey buddy. Is everything okay?”
The old man was startled, defensively putting his hands in front of his face … attempting to stand up, then sitting back down.
“Yeah. I think I fell asleep.” Glasses in his right hand, the old man rubbed beside and across his eyes with his left, trying to wipe the sleep away.
“Nice place for it, I guess. We just wanted to make sure you’re all right. One of the kids saw you up there. The wife said I should check on you. Sorry to disturb you. Jimmy come back here!”
Little Jimmy raced up the hill toward the old man.
“Hello, grandpa.” He said as he climbed onto the bench with the old man.
The old man had no experience with children and did not know what to do. He found himself smiling, not quite as repelled as he expected by the thought of a child approaching him.
“Jimmy, get down from there.”
“But I want to talk to grandpa.”
“We talked about this. Your grandfather is in heaven.”
“I want him to be my grandpa,” Jimmy said, pointing to the old man. “Will you be my grandpa?”
The old man fought the urge to say yes, but was rescued by Jimmy’s dad as he rushed up the hill and grabbed his boisterous son.
“I am so sorry, sir. We should’ve just left you in peace.”
The old man smiled. “No problem. I need to head back home anyway. I hope your family enjoys your time here. This is a great place to visit.”
Jimmy’s dad led him back down the hill. With his free hand, Jimmy turned and waved. The old man was surprised to see his right hand waving back.
He could hear the husband say “he’s okay” as he turned toward his family. “Jimmy, don’t ever do that again.”
A few minutes later, the old man was back in his sedan, many miles ahead of him as he slowly drove toward his little one-bedroom home, feeling rested, feeling calm, trying to hang on to those feelings, and already thinking about planning another trip to his bridge to the past.