Coming to the old wooden bridge, my heart was pounding, hands shaking, and my mind racing. There before me, the wood, rotted and dead, from years of neglect. The planks were shifted open, to reveal the rushing water beneath.

Stepping onto the edge of the bridge, my fear growing, I felt the need to turn back, fighting my feelings of fear, I took another step, I heard wood crackle and splinter. Closing my eyes, I took another step, slowly inching across.

I opened my eyes, holding my breath with fear. I almost fell over the side, when I screamed in wonder, I had reached the half- way point, fear was slowly dwindling, my heart was slowing.

I was coming to the end of the bridge and I realized, the old wooden bridge was really a beautiful place. Wild flowers of red, yellow and blue, standing tall, flirting with a breeze.

The flowing water beneath, sounding like a fountain, soothing, lending comfort. Crossing the bridge, was not the frightful task, I had once thought.

Copyright © 2004 lois thurman