And then the smoke cleared.
That bridge was a bitch to burn down.
All my relatives and friends and acquaintances over the years who had subconsciously reminded me of my relatives and I let become ensconced in my life stood across the smoky chasm, something from an Indiana Jones movies or Roadrunner cartoon, five hundred feet deep, a river running through it, stood yelling and screaming, shaking their fists with rage.
This all struck me as odd. For so long I had been threatened with being cut off. They had hammers and buzz saws, fire crackers and pogo sticks. The bridge had become dangerously worn in areas from the repeated threats, jackhammers on wood, vibrating the entire structure. The smoke obscured much of what was on the other side, but I knew it all the same. It was where I had been. Memories of home lingered there through the swirling ashes, but they were in fact, memories through fog. I had wandered behind them and noticed they where three quarter scale and had no backs, just struts to hold them up. They were simply movie back lots, imposed with the correct camera angle and postproduction to create a cleaner, safer world than it ever really had been.
How shocked they are. The smoke wafting by, how many matches had they blown out before I got the blowtorch? Did they expect Alec Guinness in “Bridge on the River Kwai?” I hadn’t built the bridge. I was born on it. And which way to walk was supposed to be a choice. I was still full of splinters from being dragged back.
When the smoke cleared, there were people on the other side and a jungle full of mystery.