The Small Bridge

The small wooden bridge was our meeting place every Friday night. It rested in the shades of bamboo trees, some coconut trees, and a few paper trees. The moonlit could make through their leaves and shine on our young and eager faces. There was a light bulb on a post standing on one edge of the bridge. It was switched on until dawn and was a suitable substitute for moonlight when the night sky was cloudy.

Beneath the small bridge was a stream rushing to the rice fields. At daytime, the water overflowed up to the bridge deck. It was because they had released the river connecting the stream to irrigate the rice fields. Across the bridge was Florence’s house, fenced with thick bamboo poles, guarded by three dogs. The back of their house were rice fields extending to the river.

The dogs always bark when they feel someone was in the backyard or outside the fences. They could smell something strange within some distance out of the house. When I arrived at the bridge, I could always hear them barking as though telling Florence that I was already there. And when the barking stopped, I was pretty sure that Florence was coming for me.

The last Friday night we saw each other, Florence was alluring with her duster. Her black hair would sway across her cheek that was pale under the moonlit. She would smile, a type of smile that sinks into my heart. She gracefully walked over and met me in the middle of the bridge.

“You’re lucky, Father is not around.” That was her usual introduction. But when her father would be early to arrive than me, she would hastily drag me behind the bamboo tree to hide. And I would secretly smile after the worry about her father would leave me.

We seldom touched. We were afraid our emotions would take us to situations we were not yet prepared for. Once, when I put my arms around her, warm blood rushed through me.

Sometimes words were trapped in my mouth. My heart had so many things to tell. We wrote many letters as though we were miles apart, but we spoke a little. When she talked, I stared at her inviting lips. I wanted to kiss her, but shyness thwarted me to take even a single move close to her. I wanted to breathe her air. When I stole a glance at her twinkling eyes, she caught me and I could not resist turning away. She had nice and proportional teeth that shimmer when she made that smile. Her cheeks bloomed in rose in daylight. Every part of her was perfect. And the only thing I could do was to slave myself for it.

I had not had those feelings before for any girl in town or at school until I met Florence. She was everything. I woke up every morning with her in my thoughts. Before I slept at night, I would imagine her smile. I always daydreamed about her.

That night at the bridge, the moon was full, and the sky was clear. Lots of stars showed brilliance up in the sky. We could make out shooting stars too. To our right, the bamboo trees squeaked, and the leaves swished as the wind blew. The cool air went down and brushed our sensitive skin. It was our last rendezvous. She was leaving for Tacloban City the following week to study in college. To tell the truth, I had always yearned to kiss and hug her tight. I had longed to stay with her every night. I liked to think that we lie on the lawn while her head pillowed my shoulder as we find our stars in the sky and talk about our dreams and future. And I thought that night would be my chance to fulfill it.

I was too shy to lead us. She led us instead. I did not feel bad, however. She was two years older than me. From the bridge, she took me to the bushes alongside the road. There was a suitable place to sit down. A ground carpeted with Bermuda grass and environed with small guava trees and some birds of paradise. We both thought that no one would ever spot us in that place. No one certainly would think somebody would stay in that place on a peaceful night like this. We sat down together. Our arms rubbed each other. My blood sped up through my body.

“I have something to tell you, Neil,” she whispered, and it made me chill.

I looked into her in the eyes.

She touched my cheeks in her smooth hands and drew my head to hers. For the first time, I felt her warm and soft lips. My entire body trembled. My mind went blank. I did not know how to kiss. I’d only seen it in movies. I opened my mouth as she moved her lips. Then, I learned how to respond.

We lay and felt the pricks of Bermuda grasses. I caressed her arm. Her natural smell got into my nose. It aroused me as well as ashamed that she might feel it. So, I loosened up my squeeze and drew back a bit, but she clutched tight and pressed her body against me. I gave in and hugged back. We were like Malakas and Maganda inside a bamboo, waiting for the big lizard to crack open the bamboo, disturb us, and allow us to see the real world.

I could not resist the feeling. However, I did not put away the possibilities if we continue. I gently stroke my hand down to her duster, tucked it in, and felt her smooth outer thigh. I touched the garter of her lingerie. My heart pounded like a horse’s gallop. She did not react when I touched it. I knew she wanted to give herself to me. But, to tell the truth, I was not prepared. We paused, but our wet lips were locked together.

I let go.

“Why?” she said.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, and sat up.

She sat up too and reached for my hands. “No matter what happens, you remember I will love you forever.”

Those words sank in my heart. I had read them in her fourth letter to me and now I heard them from her own words.

“I love you too,” I said at last.

We hugged for a few moments and held back the pleasure of being together, but then we heard the dog bark.

“I better get going now, Neil. Father has arrived.” She rose.

I followed her to the bridge. I was looking at her as she crossed and walked through the night and into their house.

That night changed my life.

She was in college in Tacloban City and I was still a third-year high school student in Caibiran. I had written her three letters since then, but I did not get a single response. I wanted to visit her in the city but I could not afford to, for obviously, I did not have savings to spend on it. She did not go home.

I strolled along the national road to have a sight of the small bridge and to reminisce about my best times with her. It just made me cry.

As days slipped by, I’d become ill, always thinking of her. I could not bear the fact that I’d become oblivious to her. The simple illness led to a serious one. It disabled me to study in college and even put me at death’s door. I still waited for her. I knew her friends had already told her about my terrible condition. I’d been expecting she would visit me, simply because of compassion. But I was wrong. She did not show up at my door.

My exhausted heart forgot about her. I went along with my life and studied in Cebu City. I indeed had forgotten her until after five years, when I graduated from college and headed back home.

I rode a jeepney down the road to the place where I lived. My heartbeat was fast as I knew I would pass by the small bridge. Then I saw Florence and me chatting and teasing over the bridge. Something choked me.

It was not that far from her house to my house. I could walk. I was used to it. So I signaled the driver to put a stop to his jeepney by the small bridge.

As soon as my shoes touched the ground, I looked at the bridge, disregarding the jeepney belched a cloud of black smoke, and rushed away. The place was quiet, save for the chirping of birds, creaking of bamboo trees, and the rustling of its leaves. I was not sure of what I was doing there and why I wanted to remember things between me and Florence.

The small bridge was altered. Vines were crawling on its wooden railings. On the bridge deck, which was now seemed to be shaky, were dried mosses. The light bulb post was broken. It had been twisted down. There was no longer a light bulb but only chopped electrical wiring.

I looked ahead and remembered the barking of dogs. Florence’s house appeared to be abandoned. The roof was widely thronged with rust. The wooden gates had been yanked. The bamboo pole fences had been dragged down. Vines curled on them. And on the ground were tall weeds contesting to grow.

I walked towards the bridge, quite hesitant to take a single step on it. I was not sure whether to cross and check if somebody was in Florence’s house or go back to the road and go home. I waited for something I did not know.

The gentle breeze fondled my face. It was as if whispering to me to walk to the bridge. Whether it had, it succeeded. One step I heard a creaking. Another step I felt a shake. Worried that it might fall to the stream, I stepped back.

“Maybe you can still step on it.” It was a familiar voice behind me. A little husky.

My heartbeat raced up. I was stuck on my feet, unable to turn. It was like I stood there frozen forever.

“I’ve waited for this moment, Neil,” said Florence.

I closed my eyes as I turned slowly. When I opened them, I saw her smile. The same smile that made her everything to me. She was now a full-grown woman, the same and attractive. Her complexion had become lighter. She still wore the fashion of our time; blue jeans and a white-collared shirt. Her hair tied at her back. I did not smile. I wanted her to notice the things she had done to me in the past, though time had already taken them away from me.

“Forgive me, Neil,” she said.

“Why?” I said. “Why didn’t you show up for almost ten years? Why didn’t you write to me?”

The red in her cheeks spread to her eyes. She sobbed, holding her face in her hands. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then why did you leave me? Why did you forget everything between us? Why?” I raised my voice.

She slowly took steps and stopped a few inches from me. Her natural perfume gusted about me and I remembered the night we were in the bush. There were pools of tears in the corner of her eyes. I felt compassionate of her, at the same time want to pretend numb. She held my hands. “I was raped when I was in college,” she stammered and then burst into a huge sob as if she regretted telling those words. “That was before I got your letters.”

I could not gulp. I wanted to cry, but I thought it was better to control it.

“I got pregnant,” she continued. “I decided not to write to you. I thought you would forget me. You were still young, and I thought you could easily get through it without me and find another girl better than me.”

I pulled my hands away from hers. Her face carried the feeling of worry about me despising her.

We were silent for a moment.

I had started a new life without her. But, honestly, she persisted in my heart like an addiction.

“Forgive me, Neil,” she whispered.

My heart instructed my feet to move to her and embrace her. Then, Friday nights at the small bridge came back to life. I forgot what had happened to her. I was willing to be her child’s father. I was still willing to be her husband, to be her lover forever.

“I love you still, Neil,” she said. “Forever.”

“I love you too… forever.” I smiled.

We were smiling over the bridge.

“Do we go to your house?” I asked her. “Is your father in?” I nudged to the house.

She shook her head while smiling. “We left last year. Father and mother are in our one-year-old house in town. Come.”

“How did you know I am here?” I asked.

“I’ve heard in town that you’ll arrive today. I just thought you would drop by here.” She dragged me to the bridge. The exaltation of my heart and the firmament I felt made me forget that lately I had tried to step on the bridge deck and it was no longer good.

There was a loud scraping sound, like the trunk of a tree breaking. Then a loud crack. The small bridge gave in. The bridge deck collapsed. We fell and splashed into the stream. I gripped her hand, thinking that she could not stand the rapids. But it could not drift us away.

The stream was known to its leeches, but we were not afraid of them. We were like kids, dashing waters to each other. We playfully kissed in the cheeks, forehead, neck, and lips. It was one of the happiest moments in my life, like the last Friday nights we had stayed in the bush. Shivering, we climbed up onto the ground. We stood there, looking at the broken bridge.

The small bridge had a significant part in our lives. It meant a lot to Florence and me. Now it was broken and waiting to be drifted by the rapids. But the memories we had over that bridge would never be drifted away and would remain in our hearts forever.