Death Under the Bridge
On the way to Oma’s on Monday morning, I was driving down the hill on Fingal Line, under the elevated park bridge . There were two cars parked in the road, close to the bottom of the hill. At first, I thought that it was an accident. I slowed to see if all was well, but then I saw him. It’s been 2 days and as I write this, I am struggling with sadness. My chest is heavy and my heart physically hurts. Tears have been behind my eyes since Monday morning and fall a few times a day whenever the pictures of that morning run through my mind. As I stopped close to the lady standing in the left lane, I scanned the situation and adrenaline shot through my body. I asked the lady if they needed help, but as the words left my lips, I knew. The words were only my desperate longing for him not to be dead. She said, “No honey. We can’t help. He’s gone. I’ve already called 9-1-1.” She was very tender with me. In those first moments as I scanned, I got a good look at him and the pictures have been