Every Bridge Has One

It was the kind of bridge that looked like it had been there forever, and like it would never go away. Damp tendrils of moss tried to force their way between the uneven stones of the old arch, but the bridge was too strong. Of course, I didn't know the bridge was being held up by a troll.

A big one, with huge teeth and hairy hands.

The day I walked down to the bank of the fast flowing water under the bridge, ready for all my memories to be washed away, the troll was waiting.

"Hello," said the troll. "I'm a troll, and I'm going to eat your life."

Then the troll reached out to touch me, groping like a blind man in the darkness under the bridge. His dirty, stubby fingers brushed my face like butterfly wings, and suddenly, the troll didn't look like a troll any more.

It looked like my mother, and the kid who bullied me at school. Like my first girlfriend, and the lady who works at the post office.

Like people I had met but couldn't remember, and people I remembered, but had never met.