The bridge carries strange tramissions

I dodged the proverbial bullet, at point blank range and left fast heading towards the bridge between knowing and understanding. Fireworks filled the sky in the rearview mirror.

Later, I would cry under the arms of a live oak at the rest stop just over the state line, red clay seeping back into my bones. I would sit wondering if I had made an actual choice or if the reluctance to stay was cowardice in disguise.

People - so like books - come to us as invitations to find ourselves in another world or to blend our own stories with theirs. But when that dream becomes a nightmare, garish purple against fragile skin, ribs creaking for air, sometimes we have to blow up the bridge.

You have to go through everything to build something. There are times where - before that - will be a fire or a flood. Sometimes, there are both. And God continues to count the tears of women.