Seventy years from now
I will look back and say
"I knew that young man.
I knew him before that bridge
was built."

And my grandchildren,
God willing,
will gaze up at me
and ask in thier sweet voices

"Grandma,
what bridge?

Surely not the Golden Gate,
or the Brooklyn,
or even the Tower Bridge?"

I will shake my head no
and they will ask again.

"Grandma,
what bridge?"

Again, my head will slowly
move from side to side with
tears that thier sharp eyes
can not see.

I would say
"My darlings.

The story is not about
the bridge,
yet it tells the tale
of the young man."

The gaze on my grandchildren's
faces will grow as they soften
thier voices

"Grandma,
what young man?

Surely he is dead
and buried in the ground?"

And I would say
"Yes, darlings.

The young man whom
I loved and lost
is dead
and buried in the ground."