The Bridge of Violet County

I haven’t seen my dad since I was eight years old, so when he wrote me a letter and asked me to come up and visit him for a month, I was shocked.

“I think you should go, Violet” my mother said. I keep in mind that she doesn’t really know all about my father and the kind of man he is, even though she was married to the man for a few years it’s like they never even knew each other at all.

“Because he’s your father”.

That’s her excuse? He’s my father. Well, NO SHIT SHERLOCK. If that’s the best explanation for why I should gp up there she can think of then this is going to be a long argument. I am well aware of the fact that he’s my father, but here’s the thing…

He isn’t my dad.

Isn’t dad the one you call the man whose been there your whole life? Who tucked you in at night and checked for monsters hiding in your closet? Isn’t he the one who would drop you off at school in two blocks away just so your friends wouldn’t have to see you kiss him goodbye? Isn’t he the one you trusted more then any other guy on the planet?

If that is a dad, then I never had one, not even while he was around.

I thought about it a lot, and I finally decided that it would be a good thing for me to at least talk to him person, for all I know he might have changed and become the model dad I always wanted. But that was a big “MAYBE”.

When I got off the plane I spotted my father right away, mostly because he didn’t look any different from the last time I saw him, waving to me out of my bedroom window.

He smiled, “Hi Violet”.

I could tell he felt awkward because he held out his arms to hug me but quickly drew them back.

“Do you want me to take your bag for you?”

I nodded, handing over my little carry-on meekly. I wasn’t really in the mood to strike up a conversation with him, I’m not a big fan of airplane rides so I was feeling a bit nauseous, but that also might’ve been due to the fact that the man who’d walked out on me after learning his high school friend had raped me was standing right in front of me, nothing different about him except that he was older, and I still felt like we were miles apart.

We didn’t talk the whole half an hour ride from the airport to his house, but I didn’t mind so much, I was enjoying the scenery.

I hadn’t been to Wisconsin since I was a little girl, and during that time I’d forgotten how gorgeous it was. There was nothing but green grass and cornfields for miles, something you don’t see where I’m from. No malls, no giant apartment complexes, no freeways, no smell of pollution raging in the air. Just Green.

As we were nearing the small town of Waterford where my father lives I noticed a small pathway with giant trees on either side near a lake.

“Hey Kale, didn’t there used to be a bridge right there? I think it was red and grey maybe?” I looked over at my father, not sure what he wanted me to call him.

My father looked over where I was pointing to just as we were passing it, frowning absent-mindedly, “As a matter of fact there was. We used to cross that bridge every day to get to our old house but they tore it down recently”, he said, a look of remembrance coming across his stubbled face.

I sat back in my seat, devastated. That bridge had been a huge part of my childhood. I used to run across it with my bare feet and throw pebbles down below into the river, my old best friend Jimmy Wilder had tried to kiss me in the middle of the bridge when I was six. I’d even fallen over the bridge once and almost drowned in the river but my younger brother had to come pull me out when we were seven and five. That bridge had held so many fond memories for me, the only time I could ever remember myself being happy, was when I was near that bridge.

I know I shouldn’t be so worked up about it, it’s just a silly old bridge after all, but I feel like a part of me is now missing, torn down out of my heart and now only a piece of rubble.

I went to the site where the bridge used to be one day and found a small piece of red wood that I knew had been part of the roof over the bridge.

I held it close to my heart, the closest thing to the memory I’d ever have again.