This was not altogether unusual for my father, he was an iron worker. He spent his days stick-welding, walking steel beams that were decidedly more terrifying than this.
We drove backroads, a cloud of dust kicking up behind us. Daddy wore his smudged-up work clothes. He looked out the windshield. Neither of us said much.
While he drove, we stared at the fields and farmland zipping past our windows. Such things have a way of making your mind run quiet. Barns. Farmland. Endless rows of fenceposts.
He turned at the large creek. The old metal bridge looked like a leftover from the heydays of the railroad. He rolled to a stop, then jammed the gearshift into park.
“See this bridge,” he said. “I used to spend a lot of time on this thing, haven't been here
in years.”
He jumped out of the truck. Then, he rapped his knuckles on the iron. A dull ringing suggested this thing was older and tougher than me.
I looked over the edge. It was a long way down.
He leapt onto the iron beam, then scaled to the top. “I used to do this as a boy," he called down. He held his hands outward and walked along like a tight-rope walker.
This was not altogether unusual for my father, he was an iron worker. He spent his days stick-welding, walking…
