The Bridge to Memory tags: scissors

By Celeste Regal On the bridge, streams of vehicles go on and on. Unable to acknowledge a capped river below, the silky draw of memory closes. There is no time for anything of substance. Love is in the minute, the seconds tick on your sweet song of being. Mechanical necessities engulf the endless march toward paycheck. The continual gathering of children, bleached in the haphazard of topic after topic, have no urge to learn. The noise is terminal. The insects jump at incessant turbulence.…