Reflections On A Bridge

“What’s that about Sid” I heard someone ask. We were sitting in the café, mulling over events or the lack of them, (purpose can drift out of your life with age,) and his name came up. “What about him?” said Terry, and the new guy to the group, Alex I think his name is, said, “I passed him in the rain, just leaning on the bridge watching the water flow below him. “

“I asked him if he was OK and he just said, “I know where I am,” and I thought, “I know where I am.” What’s that’s supposed to mean?” Geoff, sitting opposite me, whose read a book or two in his time piped up and said, “I think it’s a quote from a novel” and we all looked over to him but that’s Geoff. His information comes in disconnected fragments and talking to him is like wandering through an archaeological site without an expert on hand to give context to your finds. Still, that’s not really the point is it?

Some bloke I didn’t know, who was sitting at a close-by table, said “His wife died last week” and there you have it: answered in a phrase. Sid is one of those guys who looked the other way when real life drove by. Why his wife stayed with him I cannot say, but the power to endure was admired back then before the age of planned obsolescence and euthanasia parties. I mean Sid is a good hearted man but basically a mess in a worn-out shirt but he loved his wife. That is the truth in him: her living gave him purpose.