He was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge when he felt the pavement losing form. It wasn’t breaking up, it was just becoming less solid. It seemed like the top inch of the pavement had become a thick mud that no longer bore his weight. Instead of giving him a solid base on which to walk, he was now slugging his way across.
Slugging isn’t really the right word, because the pavement wasn’t exactly wet, it just wasn’t all there, just enough there to form an impediment rather than a platform.
He looked around. There were other people and many cars. Everybody else was on solid ground. He too had been on solid ground, until a few minutes ago.
This was so unexpected. He had read about the Brooklyn Bridge since he was a child. Nobody had mentioned the oozing nature of the pavement. And it was getting worse. Now his foot was half submerged, if you can call it submerged when you are sucked into something dry.
His mind flashed back to his childhood, to silly putty. Yes, that is what this is like, silly putty. It seems firm, but when you poke it, it gives way and oozes. Apparently, the top layer of the Brooklyn Bridge was made of silly putty, and nobody had noticed. Until now.
His forward motion was further hampered by the two suitcases he was carrying. Everything he owned, or at least, everything he cared about, was in one of those suitcases. One contained the superman comics he had collected as a child. The other contained trophies he had won at James Madison High School. He had kept them for twenty years, and he hadn’t wanted to leave them now. Just comics, trophies, and a few clothes.
The comics made sense. They were worth a lot of money, maybe hundreds of dollars. He could sell them once he got to Manhattan and use the money to start a new life. If he got to Manhattan, that is. The trophies were stupid. They were just weighing him down. He should have left them.
The pavement was getting even softer. He felt himself sinking into the silly putty, or whatever it was, deeper and deeper. He wanted to put down his suitcases, but he was afraid they would sink away, and he would never see them again.
He was already exhausted, and he was barely past the Brooklyn shore line. He looked ahead at the Manhattan side. The lights glittered, but the distance seemed insurmountable. He had now sunk up to his ankles, and he knew he had no choice but to turn back. He had to return to Brooklyn.
As if acknowledging his decision, the pavement began to solidify, and his steps became easier. By the time he reached the entrance ramp, he was once again on solid ground.
And there, like he knew they would be, were his parents. His mother looked at him with disgust. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have left home. You almost killed your father with worry. This is the thanks we get.
He thought for a moment. Maybe without the weight of the suitcases he could make it. He dropped the two suitcases and turned around. He started running as fast as he could. He didn’t know if he could make it, but he knew he had to try.
Spiritual questions:
- What is holding you back?
- Can you let it go?
- How far will you get?
- Wouldn't you like to find out?
This is one of the Parables for the Spiritual but not Religious Series.
July 4, 2019 - This was written with the Roundhouse Writing Group in Santa Cruz, Guatemala, remotely from Guanajuato, Mexico. The writing prompt for the session was: He was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge.
The photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge is from Wikipedia, photographer unknown, some rights may be reserved.
Did you know you can receive these blogs directly in your email? Signup with MailChimp here.
No comments:
Post a Comment