The Bridge

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The Bridge

An hour’s drive north of Santa Barbara, on California Coast Highway 1, an abandoned highway bridge overlooks the restless Pacific Ocean. A partial yet bright moon sprinkles light like falling diamonds onto the otherwise dark ocean, a few cars flow with ease at 60-70 mph along this mist covered four-lane highway - this new highway that is cut into a steep rocky cliff-side that rises straight as a building from the dark ocean waters whose waves break on the boulders strewn about below.

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The Maid

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The Maid

“What am I looking for? This is my room, but why am I standing at the window?” She asks.

“You died, Brigid dear.” her ancestors reply.

“Died? Nooo. I’m too young – I just started.”

“Yes, he shot you darling”.

This tale of tragedy occurred in Southern California. A pragmatic scientific approach would not understand or even accept, this tale, but it’s true.

Yes, real events, though somewhat extra-real. In writing this I realized I became a scribe for her. She took possession of my hand and its #2 pencil and wrote. Some call this the muse. I became to know her as Brigid, the maid. And now she told me her story. Though she was killed ninety years ago, she entered my awareness as fresh as if conversing today. These historical notes are not dead facts but rather breathing realities.

P. S. and reader, some parts of this historic tale, a tale that I experienced a few years ago, will challenge your beliefs, your understanding of life. But all parts are truly true.

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