Looking down the street you can see the one pair of columns of the triboro bridge. You can walk down easily, it’s downhill. Brick projects on the left, brownstones on the right. Sometimes the wind will come up, and I’ll remember just how beautiful she was.
The closer you get the bigger the bridge is. It’s quite huge, actually, when you see it from the top of the hill you’re the better part of a mile away from it. The closer you get the more detail is revealed. Not only is it a massive structure, but it required so many parts to acheive it’s function, it is a fantastic accomplishment, a true testament to the hand of man. As I gaze at its magnificence I only regret that I could kill her but once.
It is the east river that it crosses, that cold and dark ever moving body, wavelets racing one another to nowhere, sparkling sunshine or playing in the lights of the bridge. Deep and dark, mysterious and always changing, fresh up here and brackish down south near its mouth. It is gorgeous, it is awesome, and it is her tomb.
Memory has no horror like that which occurs in the present. Guilt is meaningless, a forever past tense, regrets are for what we’ve failed to do, being sorry is for lost opportunities. Walk along the west bank of the river, forgive and forget, try to ignore the noisy traffic on the FDR, and wonder how I threw that barrel, her weight and all, over that railing.