Baltimore Bridge

Take the case of a bridge that breaks in a quite unexpected way.  The morning news shows it collapsing when struck by a ship.  We are told — and by “we” I mean the handful of us up at four AM to see; aren’t we special to know so early? — that seven people or more have fallen into that black night water and that divers have gone in after them.

Take the case of the blood vessel in my head that did the deed less than a week ago.  I’ve told pretty much anyone who would listen that there’s a bridge in my cerebrum that snapped and now, I’ve got to keep an eye on everything. Can’t send anything or anyone in after it to rescue the cells that were impacted by the rupture, this time.

Take the case of the Rapture. Take the case of the Apocalypse. Take the case of not knowing what comes after the long plunge from a height.  The ice water in the dark. The looming demise, the struggle to survive.  Attempted rescues in the cold dark. All the likely failures; the rare miracles you hope for.

Take the case of all the morning numbers. It’s early, very early — the BP, the sugar, the pulse of me watching that slow fall over and over on the daybreak news.  I’ve been on that bridge before, long ago. I’m recalling that it was long and seven fallen seems low even this early. 

Take my case. Take my head as a full bridge tumbling. What should I save, what can I save? This isn’t Baltimore, there’s no traffic this early.  I’m one man with a busted passage, and no one thinks it’s news that this passage is snapped. I should have seen it coming. I should have taken a different road. I should make myself get more sleep.