Hands

I found myself on the Two Cent Bridge crossing the Kennebec River

It’s called that because until 1960, there was a two-cent toll to cross.

My stomach quivered slightly as I stepped onto it,

Because the first twenty feet is an open grate to the foliage below.

The beams swayed and lurched in the wind tunnel created by

The river below that sparkled like a dark, glittering snake.

We both toted identical oatmilk pumpkin spice iced lattes

That we’d picked up from a niche little place called Selah Tea,

My best friend and me.

Cinnamon and the smells of running water and sky surrounded us

And as we made our way across the little bridge towards Winslow,

I noticed the glint of hundreds of locks clamped to the fencing.

Locks of all shapes, colors, and sizes, engraved with sets of initials

The immortalization of teenage lust and angst.

Aren’t these cute? I’d said.

But all I thought of was you and your careful, steady hands,

Tensioners, rakes, vices, other strange geometries

And the way you could pick them all open.