vermont (crossing bridges)

I used to be really scared of driving across bridges. It was fear intermingled with absolute love, or fear because of love, or something. Who hasn’t fallen in love with Golden Gate, with all that it represents and with its fiery hues against all that blue above and below. A lot of the things that fostered my attachment to it scared me at the same time. The slope upwards, the creeping towards the middle, frightened me most. So much water underneath, and I can’t swim. If in the outer lane, so close to that fragile edge. A sturdy structure, but such a short distance from surface to only air. If in the inner lane, the sounds of fast-moving cars going the other way, and sometimes the subtle shake of the road. As a passenger I unconsciously gripped my seat with one hand and the side of the door with the other. As a driver I alternately went fast and slow, never able to decide which was worse (though impatience usually won out). The instability, the unfamiliarity, the vastness, or my perceptions of these things; all of it made me lose my sense of ground. This normally doesn’t faze me too much, I’m not afraid of heights or roller coasters or anything like that. It’s something about the risk associated with beautiful things.

I grew out of it, at least the specific fear of bridges. I don’t know why or when, just one of those things like not talking to my stuffed animals anymore or not expecting the tooth fairy after awhile. But I still think about it sometimes, and the feeling underlying the fear more than lingers.

In Vermont there are hundreds of covered bridges. The question of why they’re covered came up, and I couldn’t think of a good reason. They span little creeks, and you drive through them in about two seconds. You can see through to the other side before you enter the first. All the ones we saw were red. Some of them smelled like paint. You could see every plank of wood forming their structure. You could walk across them without feeling the very slight elevation. They felt like playgrounds.

I can’t remember the last time I felt that safe, and I wasn’t sure where that was coming from. The smallness, the covering, the utter quietness and stillness—it didn’t really matter, just an illusion of safety, except there wasn’t even the illusion of danger. I had a flashback of how I felt standing on the Golden Gate this summer, cold, the wind blowing ferociously, buried in the fog and feet tiptoe on the ledge. And I thought, they’re not so different. The former, the wonder of my conception of beauty, of what’s worth crossing, how large and intimidating and formidable our minds make things, those excited and scared and naïve goosebumps. The latter, the indescribable comfort that comes from dispelling the fear without losing the immensity, or the image. Feeling the safety and the excitement at once.

I would like to hang onto October for a bit longer.

remembering

I’ve told this story to various people and just again recently. I don’t know why it comes up other than I find it amusing. My great-aunt used to make me tea with sugar every afternoon after school. She would boil the water and make a pot even though no one else was around to drink it but me. She would pile on scoops and scoops of sugar because I like it ultra-sugary. She would blow on it to cool it down and warn me that it was hot. Then she would sit and watch me drink it. She put her spices and things in clear jars, sometimes without labels, because she could tell what they were by sight. One time she took the wrong container and put salt in my cup of tea. I think I was ten. My nose and forehead wrinkled with confusion. Then I said, “You put salt in this tea!” She stared blankly at me for a second, and then grinned, and then started laughing. It was so absurdly wrong, and funny. She made me another cup. Maybe one day I will put salt in my kids’ tea, and maybe years later they will remember how sweet the act of caring is.