"It's time," she says, squeezing my hand. "It's time to cross the Bridge." I blink.
I don't want to cross it.
What's on the other side? I ask.
But nothing comes out of my mouth.
"It's okay," she said. "You can cross it. Just take one step at a time."
I blink again. I open my mouth to tell her, No! I don't want to go!
But again, nothing comes out.
My eyes close.
The Bridge is there.
It has always been there, I realise.
It stretches out in front of me.
I can't see the end.
Is there an end?
I take a deep breath and shudder.
"That's right," she whispers, her hand in mine. "Take a step."
I shuffle forward. The wooden slats beneath my feet are surprisingly warm. The bridge sways slightly as it begins to bear my weight.
But not in a scary way.
It feels gentle.
Comforting.
Like being rocked in a cradle.
Was I ever rocked in a cradle? I wonder. Was I rocked in the arms of my mother?
Whatever.
It feels safe.
I take another step on the bridge to nowhere.
...
