We Were Here (Prologue) [1/8]
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There’s an old wooden crossbeam under the bridge, the last valiantly clinging reminder of the time before concrete, before steel. It was probably forgotten when the construction crew stripped the bridge of its past and rebuilt it, stronger, bigger, newer. Or maybe it was just left because someone was sentimental and wanted to hang on to the memories of the two-lane dirt road that once crossed the ravine here.
The concrete that frames it is dirty and cold looking, but the wood itself is warm, and comforting. It’s weathered along the grain, peeling and shredded along the edges, out of place in the functional, impersonal setting of modern engineering. The beam is not going anywhere anytime soon. In fact, it will probably stay like that until the concrete bridge crumbles and collapses, and the crew comes to make a new one. No one of any sway comes down here, no one to notice the abnormality or rather no one to notice the abnormality who would actually care. Only those who take their pocket knives and carve and scratch awkward, blocky letters into the greying remnant of the past.
Jared listens to the traffic swooping by overhead, listens as the tires slick up water from the wet road and splash it into nothing more than white noise. He remembers a time when that sound meant home, when looking up at that wooden beam meant he was safe and exactly where he was supposed to be. He lets the memories drift through him, the images stir the air around him, caressing his heart. He used to stare up at that old, marked up wooden crossbeam, and day dream about all the people before him who’d stared up at it in wonder. Now, reaching up almost reverently, he rests his hand against the wood, higher than he’d ever been able to reach all those year ago. His fingers trail across the very top letters. The legacy and the memories, all carved deep, scarred and permanent.
Rodney was here
1977
Part I
There’s an old wooden crossbeam under the bridge, the last valiantly clinging reminder of the time before concrete, before steel. It was probably forgotten when the construction crew stripped the bridge of its past and rebuilt it, stronger, bigger, newer. Or maybe it was just left because someone was sentimental and wanted to hang on to the memories of the two-lane dirt road that once crossed the ravine here.
The concrete that frames it is dirty and cold looking, but the wood itself is warm, and comforting. It’s weathered along the grain, peeling and shredded along the edges, out of place in the functional, impersonal setting of modern engineering. The beam is not going anywhere anytime soon. In fact, it will probably stay like that until the concrete bridge crumbles and collapses, and the crew comes to make a new one. No one of any sway comes down here, no one to notice the abnormality or rather no one to notice the abnormality who would actually care. Only those who take their pocket knives and carve and scratch awkward, blocky letters into the greying remnant of the past.
Jared listens to the traffic swooping by overhead, listens as the tires slick up water from the wet road and splash it into nothing more than white noise. He remembers a time when that sound meant home, when looking up at that wooden beam meant he was safe and exactly where he was supposed to be. He lets the memories drift through him, the images stir the air around him, caressing his heart. He used to stare up at that old, marked up wooden crossbeam, and day dream about all the people before him who’d stared up at it in wonder. Now, reaching up almost reverently, he rests his hand against the wood, higher than he’d ever been able to reach all those year ago. His fingers trail across the very top letters. The legacy and the memories, all carved deep, scarred and permanent.
Rodney was here
1977
Part I