Many years ago when I was strictly a cultural writer, I went to Dia Beacon with the beloved aunt who raised me to cover an exhibit. Taking her on these outings was one of the great joys in my life, and as she drove, I gazed out of the window contentedly until I observed a somewhat disconcerting sight.
As we passed over a bridge under repair, two workers in hard hats with clipboards looked at one another and shook their heads. Put it this way: If the bridge were a patient and the workers doctors, the prognosis would not have been good. Suffice it to say, I was relieved that we got over it as quickly as possible.
I’ve always felt like that about bridges even though I adore their beauty. For all their steel and concrete, they are like buildings, both monuments to man’s might and fragile creatures. We know their delicacy in tragedy.
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