I have a signed, limited edition art print of Switzer Bridge surrounded by trees in autumn glory. It’s a covered bridge no longer used by vehicles but open to foot traffic near Stamping Ground, KY. I purchased the piece at a nearby bookshop the same day my then boyfriend, who’s from that tiny town, took me there to show me a small piece of where he had spent his youth. It’s also where he professed his love.
The artwork is a keepsake from our beginning. We had no way of knowing a dozen years later we would face a devastating illness.
I’ve read about some reasons they built covers on bridges: provide shelter for travelers, strengthen the entire structure, and prolong life.
We had no way of knowing my husband’s love would be just like a cover for a bridge during one of the hardest times in our 22 years of marriage.
For some years, I carelessly kept the framed print on a shelf that met the afternoon sunlight and its rich colors faded into a worn and comfortable patina.
You don’t go through these kinds of things and remain unchanged.
This is the 47th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.