Sunday, September 28, 2008
Water under the bridge
by Leila Dougan
I spent my entire Saturday on a bridge. I sat in the middle of the bridge and watched the murky water beneath it. I wanted one of those little boats you could place on the one side of the bridge and wait to appear on the other side, unharmed. It was a sturdy bridge, the kind many cross. Not on this particular Saturday thought. It was a cold day. Windy. And I was afraid my paperclips would slide through the slits and disappear into the dirty water forever. I should have sat on the grass.
I spent my entire Saturday on a bridge. I sat in the middle of the bridge and watched the murky water beneath it. I wanted one of those little boats you could place on the one side of the bridge and wait to appear on the other side, unharmed. It was a sturdy bridge, the kind many cross. Not on this particular Saturday thought. It was a cold day. Windy. And I was afraid my paperclips would slide through the slits and disappear into the dirty water forever. I should have sat on the grass.
Monday, September 22, 2008
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