Five Seconds of Solace

On a cloudy morning, the fog chokes the air and settles itself onto the silky waters. On a clear, blue-sky morning, the sun plays its “seek” part in hide-and-go-seek with me. On a snowy, cotton-filled morning, the water tenses up and trees hold onto snowflakes. 

Amidst the chaos of the morning, where everyone is scrambling out of the house, tensions rise and my tears fall. I say good morning to the stress, madness, sadness, anxiety. In my anxiety of being late, there are always at least five slow seconds of serenity. 

The bridge. 

My bridge stretches over the Croton Reservoir. It’s not suspended, simply dark gray, concrete, and overall bland. It’s not the bridge itself that gives me serenity but the panoramic picture around me. 

Since the beginning of high school, it has calmed me every morning. On the drive to school, I may be doing homework, talking to my siblings, nearly falling asleep, or already looking out the window. My dad is sitting behind the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the dark gray road ahead. My siblings are also doing homework, talking, sleeping, or looking out the window. I am in this eternity of peace while the loud whoosh of cars zooms by me. 

To the right of me, I sometimes see an old man in his canoe. Is this his place of solace too? I look far past the placid man and get lost in the channel of water, fog, trees, and sky. Are there any other bridges down there? How far does the water like to stretch itself?

To the left of me stands the other bridge, filled with fewer cars. That bridge is unique too, I just don’t pay an enormous amount of attention to it. I’m always on that other bridge at night, when the day comes to an end, and the sun plays its “hide” part in hide-and-go-seek. It’s dark. I’m tired. I barely look up from my tiny device, and when I do, I sometimes see the glassy sunset to the left of me. The rusty, orange-reddish poles prevent me from seeing the whole picture. The car seems to be going faster on the other bridge. I don’t take in everything as much as I did twelve hours earlier. My morning stress isn’t there. I’m going home. I don’t exactly look for a peaceful stillness on the other bridge. 

Every single morning, when my dad’s car sails along the gray pavement of the bridge, my family looks to their left and right. I don’t know why we all look—it’s an unspoken, involuntary action. It’s silent for a few moments. We take in the picturesque scene of the milky clouds and the velvety water. Everything kind of just stops. I imagine they feel almost the same way I do. I like to believe just a little of their stress is taken by the depths of water and fog and trees and sky. 

I sometimes wish I could be like the old man. I want to be sitting in a canoe on the satiny water where I can disregard all my worries. I feel sad that next year I won’t be seeing my bridge every day. I’ll go away, but my bridge will always stay in its place. Then I’m reminded of the beautiful view. I have a tiny glimpse of tranquility waiting for me at the bridge. Sometimes I’m stuck on the bridge for what feels like a lifetime. Sometimes the dreary rain gives the bridge a sad view. I hate that it looks pessimistic.

I wonder a lot on that bridge. When was it named the AMVETS Memorial Bridge? Why haven’t I ever gone canoeing in these smooth waters? Why haven’t I walked across the other bridge? Am I the only one that really appreciates this bridge? 

After the five seconds of wonder, I’m back to reality. The stress, madness, sadness, anxiety—they’re all back, too. The murmur of tires hitting potholes and engine sputtering creeps back in. The radio spewing 1010 Wins, where we give them twenty-two minutes and they give us the world, seems to grow a little louder. We seem to be a part of the loud whoosh of cars and seem to zoom by the under-appreciated nature. I’m a part of everyone else on the highway—in their car—looking only to their destination.

I’m exiting my carefree, flowery, quiet, scenic world of a dream by the second. I stumble into my crazy, loud, maddening, lengthy day. The highway bores me as it looks the same for the next forty minutes. The bridge is different every day. The cars could be hidden by the fog, or the water could be frozen from the cold temperatures. I forget about the bridge until twenty-four hours later, forty-eight hours later, seventy-two hours later, when I re-enter my world that revolves around a bridge. 

Now that I have my driver’s license, the bridge no longer offers the same friendship to me. When I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, the sun seems to be rather shy and is hiding instead of seeking. I don’t notice the small details of the water and fog and trees and sky. My head still turns to the left and right of the bridge to see the scenery, but it’s not the same. My eyes dart from left to right. They don’t look the way they used to. My dad no longer drives me to school. I start to appreciate the other bridge a little more. Now, on the other bridge, I notice the burnt-orange sunset setting above the tired waters. Change is in effect. My friendship with the bridge turns into just an acquaintance.