I remember that old wooden bridge. Our red Galaxy 500 whined just a little going up and the boards clattered slightly under the tires. My pregnant mother acted as thought the whole thing might collapse under the weight of the car.
Thankfully, for a five year old the word 'collapse' holds no meaning. It didn’t sound good. She held herself stiff as a corpse, not even breathing out. I looked out the window of the car. A silver blue river snaked below, thin as string.
“Oooooh, look! Water!” I said. My sister and two brothers crawled over the seat to the passenger side. Mother inhaled sharply when the weight in the car shifted as three little faces plastered up against the glass to peer down into the gorge.
“Sit down and stop moving!” she said through her teeth. I felt her fear in that moment. For a flash, I saw our car falling through the air. I wanted her to relax. Maybe she didn't know what I knew.
“Don’t worry, mom. If the bridge breaks, we’ll fly like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
“Bang Bang!” the one year old said.
Mother’s eyes slid to my father who navigated the car to the other side with out incident. He smiled and commented on his brilliant son. She complained about the rickety bridge she never again wanted to ride over again.
Ever since then, I’ve dreamt of bridges falling down.