MANETTE BRIDGE

"I didn't know that people faded out / that people faded out so fast / ... / there it is, we are only one moment from death / the sun rises / but the sun also sets."
—from "The Sun Also Sets" by Ryan Adams, as found on the album Easy Tiger

The child and I visited Bremerton. The main purpose of the trip was to visit the paternal grandfather, who is dying. This visit came the day after a friend and coworker learned that her son has a chronic disease. The "ripple effect" of the news on the collective emotional state of the office staff, as well as the emotional state of each individual, was immediately apparent. Loss and change and death come again in myriad forms.

Therefore, the child and I needed to get out and play.

We attempted to find a puzzle geocache located near the Manette Bridge. We found the "pieces" to the puzzle, but we could not locate the cache. After forty-five minutes of clambering up and down banks, digging through ivy, and checking and rechecking our GPS coordinates, we decided to go eat lunch.

(Every time we went under the bridge, the GPS unit lost its satellite connection and tried to redetermine our location. That meant holding the unit above my head so that it could track satellites again.)

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The child and I headed to our favorite lunch spot in Bremerton, Fritz European Fry House. We split a chicken basket with fritz (of course!). Troy's Work Table had a Der Blokkin ale. This time around, I pleasantly discovered an undercurrent of pear in the flavor that either was not present before, or, more likely, I did not notice on previous drinks.

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I spent time with the paternal grandfather in his home. His health continues to decline. He is tired. He naps like a cat. I admire his survivor spirit. I would have given up long ago. But, then again, maybe not. I am his grandson, after all.

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I spent time with the father driving to and from the paternal grandfather's home. It was good to talk. To talk about the paternal grandfather's state of health. To debrief the visit on the way back to the father's house. To just talk, and just be, father and son.

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Traffic on the way back home from Bremerton was as awful as it usually is on a Friday at the peak of the evening commute. But, the traffic didn't seem to bother me as it usually does. The child slept. The radio was on, but I wasn't really listening. I drove and thought. I was thinking about the simple joys of life—wandering around for no good reason, drinking a good ale, eating fries, watching birds, being in the presence of people whom you love. I just wanted to drive as death pursued me. I just wanted to get home.

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The sun set and the dark arrived. Dinner was cooked and eaten. The child was readied for bed. The wife retired for the evening. The cat climbed to the top of the sofa and curled into sleep. The house became quiet. I went and grabbed my copy of John Richardson's A Life of Picasso: The Triumphant Years, 1917–1932, opened to where I had earlier placed my bookmark, and began to read.

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I will read. It is very likely that I will fall asleep on the couch and lose my place. I will close the book and groggily stumble to the bedroom. I will crawl into bed and place my head on the pillow. I will sleep. I will dream. If I do, I hope they are good dreams.