A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.
– Joan Didion
I cannot visualize my memories very well, but I do remember the feelings they invoked. The solitude and peace I felt under that bridge. The reprieve from my exhausting efforts to fit in. A place I shared only with true friends.
As a kid there aren't many places you can go to just be. However each time my life was turned upside down by a move, the first thing I'd do was find a place to call my own. Atop of a cinder block wall, an abandoned fort, atop of a parking garage, but my absolute favorite was under a bridge.
Retreating everyday to my spot, I'd climb the hill up to the top where there was just enough room for a small person like me to stand. I loved when there was a lull of cars atop, then suddenly you could hear and feel the thunder above. I used to think if there was an earthquake I'd be the first to go, but at that time I didn't care. I'd sit and wait for my friend to arrive, she knew where I'd be. It was cold and dim, a prefect place to sit and sulk a while. My mind free to wander and ponder life's deep meaning. Throwing a rock watching it tumble down the hill, I'd think of my space and time. Why I was there in that moment, what impact my self had on the world. Wakened from my somber solitude, I'd hear her bubbly presence, laughing as she'd run up the hill with confidence and style. We'd spend hours complaining and laughing about our day at different schools. More teens would sometimes show up to find out what mischief was in store. We were misfit toys, the after school breakfast club, there to add colorful injustice quotes marking the cement walls. We knew our place in the world, it was there under that bridge.
Carl von Clausewitz
