Bridges and rivers seem to bring back childhood memories.
First, there was the bridge near my Grandmother’s house in the summer, where I’d throw sticks in on one side and race over to the other side to see which one came out first. There were no cars to worry about. The bridge itself a single lane and the barrier a single, thick wire. I dropped her binoculars once and she had to climb down the rocky bank to retrieve it.
There’s the bridge near my parents’ home, named after a family of escaped slaves, where we’d ride our bikes in the summer, now just remains.
Top left: Winter mist; Top right: Spring; Middle right: Fall; Bottom: Summer
To see more photographic interpretations of Bridge, click here.