Capilano

We stand at the entrance, a single hobbled umbrella attempting to shield us from the pounding rain and I’m asking, “What are we going to see cold and drenched like this?” when I read the words Capilano Suspension Bridge on the painted sign.

You’ve never understood a river roars inside my head, that decades later I can still hear the frenzied storm that destroyed the suspension bridge at home, tossing Ma, who’d gone to bring me Cadbury’s, into the river, where she became jetsam in the churn.

The deluge slays loud, thick, menacing clouds hanging so low, the far end of the bridge is a faded specter, and a familiar wave ignites in my chest, making me want to scream-ask, “All you care about is your list of touristy locations?”

Ten years of marriage and you think I can scrape off the deep-rooted like wet mud from shoes, which is why you state, “This bridge might be from the 1800s, but it’s been modernized,” adding, “Only one person has fallen into the Capilano and that was a while ago.”

When you pull out a granola bar, carve a bite, extend the chocolate-enrobed bar toward me, saying “Hey, technically, this isn’t candy,” I clench my teeth and respond, “I’ll wait in the car.”

From the passenger seat, I see you mouth, “Party pooper,” before you sway-step onto the rain-slick bridge, farther, fainter, until you blend into mist.