On Sundays we would go out for day trips, right after dinner, or before, depending on how far we were traveling. The weather was never a cause for delay. Sometimes the roads turned to dirt, and dust flew through the inside of the car and I would lie down on the seat, holding my breath. Sometimes it rained so hard Mother would pull over to the side of the road and we all smothered under the weight of water and lightning and thunder. If our destination was not a relative, it was some road Mother wanted to follow, some old house or cemetery or bridge she wanted to see. She told tales like a color commentator on a sports show, with varied voices, tales of people and places and things she knew or had been told. The tales always grew taller and taller but that didn't matter. "I remember, I remember." Mother said that often. We were time travelers, ghost hunters, bone collectors, bridge walkers. Our pockets were always full of stones and twigs, our knees scraped. We ate gnats while trying to breathe. That is how it was when Mother was restless and she was always restless on a Sunday, following Mass and dinner. That is how it was when days were slow, so slow I thought they would last forever. I saw many things, snakes and raccoons, possums and armadillos, bird nests, and bee hives, turtles bathing and sunning all without a zoo sign. I attended funerals and looked in wooden coffins, kissed the cold cheeks of old dead aunts of aunts of aunts, took home some of their dresses and old bowls, along with the turtles and a fear I did not understand.
I remember, I remember this old bridge.
