For 27 years, I have tended this old railroad bridge. Deep in the basin of the Mississippi, the sandstone cliffs tower above me. On top of these cliffs, the city bustles. Lawyers, doctors, bankers and insurance workers scurry to their jobs, concerned with their next promotion, their children’s success and the angst of their love lives.
And yet I sit here, day after day. They do not know I’m here, but I do not mind. When I started, the trains would deliver grain to the brewery daily. I felt important. But the brewery is no more, the bridge is rarely used, yet still I sit, filling the time. I think about my childhood, the sweetheart I loved in high school, and the father that I lost. What else am I to do? Time is passing me by, but I am still needed. After all, I am the bridge tender.
Words and image by The Bison in the Woods (c) 2016