What Was Once the Bridge to Home, Paw Paw, 2020
The owners left a few years ago.
Moved to a manufactured home,
high on a hill nearby.
The house is much like the bridge,
falling in, rotting, the inside black with mold.
There’s history here.
A man shot, killed by his step-father.
I don’t know the details, but
the killed man, the stepson, was supposedly drunk,
high on drugs, shooting into the house,
from just beyond the bridge.
With his mother inside.
It was ruled justifiable.
Likely, I’d have done the same.
I pass this spot on my daily walks and
think about what must have been an awful night.
For everyone.
The terror of it.
A mother’s son, dead,
by the hands of her husband.
How does one live with that?
It’s peaceful there now in its disrepair.
Quiet, almost picturesque,
slowly becoming part of the landscape.
Part of the heritage of place.
There are beaver in the creek building their own home.
The creek rises and falls with the rain, sometimes
taking the beaver den downstream in high water.
They try to build back, but are washed out again.
And again.
Until finally moving to a more agreeable location.