O’ Sacred Bridge, Yet To Be Found
By Richard James Mabey Jr.
There is a calling that every man hears at some point in his life. It is a gentle whisper. It is more gentle than a summer breeze. It beckons a man. It is the feeling of walking in the forest, deep in the forest and coming upon a stream. But there is no bridge to cross the stream. So, the man walks further along the stream and then finds the bridge. The bridge. The bridge that will allow him to cross the forest stream.
And so it is with time. A man is walking along in time. The big hand on the clock ticks away the minutes. The sun rises, the sun sets. The pages of the calendar are torn off and tossed away. Still, a man yearns to find the bridge that will allow him to cross into his yesteryear, his youth, his childhood.
He longs to take one more ride on the swing in the old park. But, alas, the old park is not there any more. Brick and mortar have replaced the beautiful little park. He longs to stand in the outfield, just one more time. To catch a fly ball. But condominiums now pillar where the open field once hailed.
A man longs to see childhood friends just one more time. And he finds a childhood friend. As if the odds are ten million to one, he finds one of his oldest childhood friends. He connects with her on social media. They exchange the usual “what they’ve been up to” reports. And then the unthinkable happens, that dear old friend, defriends the man from his social media page. No reason, no rhyme. The pain feels like a knife in his heart.
And the man thinks, yearns to climb the old tree fort just one more time. To play Monopoly with his buddies in the old clubhouse. To look for arrowheads in the forest. To walk the path along the old canal. And then the man realizes that a huge development of mansions has been built on the wide acreage of that beautiful forest. Greed and corruption has won out.
Still a man yearns to go back. He tries to bargain with the Time Master. For just one week. Then he bargains for just one day. Then he bargains for just one hour, to go back to the old homestead. To buy a comic book at the old corner sweet shop. To get a haircut with his father, on a Saturday morning, at the little barber shop. To play fetch, just one more time, with his old collie dog.
But alas, it is all gone. His little home town is now a city, with corporate stores, condominiums galore and rows upon rows of million dollar homes on postage stamp lots.
O’ dear soul. O’ precious memories, O’ sacred loved ones. Gone. Gone. Gone from places here and there. Gone. Gone. Gone.