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Sara Lingafelter
Sara Lingafelter
1 min read

TW: Suicide (maybe)

The police car raced up behind me as I started across the bridge.  I slowed down in the right lane to give them the entire left lane to pass.  I watched with the frustration of someone who grew up in a small town as the other city drivers didn’t move over, and didn’t allow the police car to pass.  

It was about twenty seconds of driving before I caught up to the police car parked along the railing of the bridge, one officer stepping out of the driver’s side and one officer stepping out of the passenger side.  The part of my brain that operates based on facts took note of the officers walking slowly forward, toward a small car parked on the bridge, toward a woman with a ponytail and a purple sweater on, both hands and her right foot up on the bridge’s railing; her left foot on the bridge deck.

The “what the fuck was that” part of my brain kicked in before the “I don’t want to know” part, but in the end the “maybe I’m not cut out for living in a city” part was the day’s winner.  

I presume that she, and the two officers, and any other passerby are safe and sound somewhere warm and full of healing tonight.  In my imagination, I see her climbing back onto the bridge deck, and squatting down low to rest her back against the bridge barrier… feeling the firm surface of the bridge deck under both of her feet and the safety of the barrier pressing against her back… her head resting in her hands, adjusting to the reality of the moment, and planning the very next step of the many steps that will make up the rest of her life.  And if that isn’t what happened, then in my imagination, under the back of her sweater, she had hidden wings and flew.

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Sara Lingafelter

Sara (Grace) Lingafelter takes steps forward and backward toward a right-sized life on a daily basis.