I have a thing about bridges.
An armchair analyst would probably trace it back to my childhood trips across the Throgs Neck (or Frog’s Neck, as I called it), on the road to Uncle Buddy’s house in New Jersey.
My older brother would work hard to convince me that we were going to drive up the cables, over the towers, and then come speeding down the other side. And even though history didn’t support this outcome, it took hold in my imagination.
So here in my adulthood, I admire bridges as physical objects. I value them as versatile metaphors. But my grip on the steering wheel tightens each time I need to drive over one of any length.
On the one hand, there is the cool action photo, with clouds of dust being kicked up in the center of Shea.
On the other hand, rising in the background like a beast of dread and majesty is the Whitestone Bridge.
And on both hands, my knuckles whiten…