Crossing The Brooklyn Bridge
The first time I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge it was in the middle seat of a 20-foot U-Haul with my entire world packed into boxes behind me. We were three country folks so focused on navigating through the crowded streets of Lower Manhattan that we missed all of the signs on the Bridge that screamed “ABSOLUTELY NO TRUCKS.” I paid no mind to the chaos on my left and right and instead snapped my first wide-eyed Instagram of the Bridge. Caption reading: “Welcome home.”
The second time I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge I was walking home from my unpaid internship near City Hall with my entire world up in the air. I had moved to New York without any real money saved up, without a job lined up, and without any real plan. I was willing to do whatever it took, but two weeks into this unpaid journalism job, I realized the truth: that the kind of work I just spent five years getting a degree in bored me and depressed me to death. Where was I supposed to go from here? Back home across the Bridge of course, snapping photos of the city lights along the way. Caption reading: “Inspiration is all around.”
I’ve crossed it many times in between, but the most recent time I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge it was with my entire world right next to me, holding my hand. With no other purpose than to shake the remnants of winter from our bones, my wife and I walked the narrow mile-long pedestrian pathway while snapping photos of the skyline and each other. Swapping the Canon back and forth, sometimes we’re just as bad as the group of tourists we zigzag in and out of. Caption reading: “I will carry you."