Water Under the Bridge
by David Larsen
Warren Strohman stumbled through the tangle of knee-high weeds and the clutter of debris, beer cans, broken bottles, fast food wrappers, a latex thumb that could have been a scrap from a glove, but more than likely a tossed-aside condom, all in what had been the front yard of the ramshackle house he’d been raised in, before a president was gunned down, before a fellow Buckeye from nearby Wapakoneta stepped onto the moon, before everyone in the country turned on each other over a conflict overseas that Warren found himself in the middle of.
The house was gone—most likely bulldozed by the county—although, like the remnants of an ancient civilization, a faint outline of the structure remained, partially exposed like a skeleton in Pompeii, to encourage would-be researchers as they rummaged through the bricks and splintered boards in search of evidence of a heretofore unknown culture.
Though, if the truth be told, there would be no archeological digs here, nor would anthropologists show any interest in one hardscrabble Ohio family who scrimped and struggled just to get by, four people easily forgotten by time, overlooked by everyone, everyone but a seventy-nine-year-old ex-con who longed to dredge up evidence that he was once the carefree son of a down-on-his-luck auto mechanic and his overburdened wife.
Warren stood where the door to the front porch had been. In its day it was hardly a real porch, but rather a screened-in, almost-accidental addition thrown together by his father, a poor excuse for a carpenter, a creaky fixture that clung to the rest of the shack like a frightened toddler hangs onto its mother’s apron.
Warren knew he should feel something, yet he was numb.
How many nights did Earl and I sleep on this porch and talk about getting as far away from these people’s simple ways as we could? he asked himself. How many midnight train whistles summoned us? This is it. This is where we grew up. It seemed so much bigger, back then.
He limped through rotting two-by-fours and broken tiles, taking caution not to slip and fall where he and Earl once played marbles and mumblety-peg.
I let everyone down.
Warren kicked at a scrap of linoleum, then sighed.
I should’ve come back. Now everyone’s gone. And I’m all that’s left.
Water under the bridge, his mother, in her nasal drawl, said from somewhere beneath the rubble. Water under the bridge.
The house was gone—most likely bulldozed by the county—although, like the remnants of an ancient civilization, a faint outline of the structure remained, partially exposed like a skeleton in Pompeii, to encourage would-be researchers as they rummaged through the bricks and splintered boards in search of evidence of a heretofore unknown culture.
Though, if the truth be told, there would be no archeological digs here, nor would anthropologists show any interest in one hardscrabble Ohio family who scrimped and struggled just to get by, four people easily forgotten by time, overlooked by everyone, everyone but a seventy-nine-year-old ex-con who longed to dredge up evidence that he was once the carefree son of a down-on-his-luck auto mechanic and his overburdened wife.
Warren stood where the door to the front porch had been. In its day it was hardly a real porch, but rather a screened-in, almost-accidental addition thrown together by his father, a poor excuse for a carpenter, a creaky fixture that clung to the rest of the shack like a frightened toddler hangs onto its mother’s apron.
Warren knew he should feel something, yet he was numb.
How many nights did Earl and I sleep on this porch and talk about getting as far away from these people’s simple ways as we could? he asked himself. How many midnight train whistles summoned us? This is it. This is where we grew up. It seemed so much bigger, back then.
He limped through rotting two-by-fours and broken tiles, taking caution not to slip and fall where he and Earl once played marbles and mumblety-peg.
I let everyone down.
Warren kicked at a scrap of linoleum, then sighed.
I should’ve come back. Now everyone’s gone. And I’m all that’s left.
Water under the bridge, his mother, in her nasal drawl, said from somewhere beneath the rubble. Water under the bridge.
David Larsen is a writer who lives two miles from the border with Mexico in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in more than thirty-five literary journals and magazines, including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Aethlon, Floyd County Moonshine, Oakwood, El Portal, Change Seven, Coneflower Cafe, and The Raven Review.