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From the bridge
The radical son was losing its blinding glare, softening into mellow gold. Couples watched the beauty unfold, basking in what was left of the warm glow.
Skateboarders were flying from one end to another without a nod to gravity. Babies in strollers felt the weight of what was to come as only they can.
A few cars took the trip to the other side without contemplation, just needing to get through the commute and home to brace for the night yet again.
In the scope of things, I was but a minor player. Silently I watched my fellow humans, looking for signs of awareness on their covering skin and in their glassy eyes.
Stick figures working out their moves as they go, enchanting in their innocence and naivety. Each moment belongs to them, never to be eclipsed or redacted.
Who am I, you might ask, this spectator on the bridge. A lost soul at the rail who contemplates a final step. But I keep watching, watching my fellow humans.
Lori Jones McCaffery
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