Bridge Between

I had dumped him a week before; this call wasn't what I expected.

He was gone.

He overdosed on heroin, leaving behind his family and a letter.

As I held the letter, I knew I didn't want to open it, so I cast this paper to the fireplace, never to know the last words of this man.

I was told he took all his things and placed them in the hallway, accessible to anyone; he wouldn't use them anymore.

I lay in bed and fell into a dizzying and sweat-filled dream, the clock read 5am.

I see a bridge, and it's snowing. Underneath this cobblestoned bridge is a rushing River where the snow does not touch. Instead, it is a bountiful collection of flowers and bushes. I walk to the bridge, step onto the bridge, and attempt to step off on the other side, and I'm met with a wall of energy prohibiting me from leaving the bridge on that side.

As I loiter on this bridge, my cat, Tiny Tim, appears from the side I can't go across to. Weird, as Tiny Tim had passed away years ago. I picked him up and petted him. He jumped down and disappeared back to his side as my grandfather appeared.

My grandfather had passed away two years previous, and we sat and talked about the War and his paintings. He couldn't come to my side, so he retreated to his side after telling me he loved me.

Finally, he appeared. He looked as young as he was old, preserved at the age he was when I left. He gingerly stepped towards me, lifted a hand, and immediately withdrew. “I’m sorry” is all he could say. His head was down so that I couldn't see his face, but all I wanted to do was hug him and beg him to come back with me. He wasn't supposed to be here. He looked up as if he could hear my thoughts and shook his head. “I’m happy here. I'm with my little brother, and I'm happy.” I sighed as we stood on the bridge, looking at each other. Nothing more to say, but so much left unsaid. He looked over his shoulder and back at me. “I have to go, but I'll see you again.” He backed away as if he didn't want to stop looking at me and was gone. I ran to follow him, though I couldn't.

A man with a blurred face appeared at this time. He was in a plaid red shirt and jeans. He spoke, “Do you trust me?” he asked. I nodded my head yes. He grabbed my hand and led me to the railing of the bridge. He asked again, “Do you trust me?” My voice was sand in my mouth as I nodded. He helped me up on top of the railing. One last look at him, he asked again, “Do you trust me?” I squeaked a “yes,” and he pushed me into the rushing River.

I awoke from this dream, covered in sweat like I had fallen into the river. I looked around, and I was in my bed; I wasn't on the bridge. I had been forced off the bridge between life and death. I wondered if I would continue to come to that bridge if it meant it was my time, the time on the clock said 5:01am.

I would have that same dream for eight more months. The conversations were different, but overall, I saw the same people and always ended up in the river. Now, over ten years later, I remember that dream and wonder why I didn't say, “No, I don't trust you.” Would that have changed anything?

I'm older than he was when he died, and I have lived to the best of my ability. I know I've had an angel, him, with me the whole time and I have asked him to step away and allow him to forgive himself because I forgave him all those years before. That chapter was just the beginning; I have so much left unwritten.