The Day the Bridge Collapsed

They told me they were separating the day the bridge collapsed. Breaking news showed a video from someone’s phone shot earlier that morning. Mom put down her teapot and turned up the volume. There was no sound, though. Just a cargo ship ramming slowly into one of the bridge’s support beams. We watched in silence as waves of steel and concrete fell like dominoes into the river within seconds, and I wondered how something so stable could crumble so quickly.
 
Two hours after the bridge collapsed, I got ready for school. Mom fussed with my blouse and fixed my ponytail as if it were picture day as Dad opened the door for me like a doorman. “My lady,” he said and stretched out his hand. “Your chariot awaits.” When the bus came, Mom waved her beauty pageant wave from the kitchen window while Dad stood in the driveway and pumped his fists in the air.
 
A day after the bridge collapsed, six bodies were recovered from the water. Crews had worked through the night to find survivors, but dozens were still missing. “Will they keep looking?” I asked during dinner. “They’ll try,” Dad said at the same time Mom said, “but it may be too late for some.”
 
Three weeks after the bridge collapsed, rescue efforts ended. Vigils were held nightly as people got back to their lives. Dad picked me up from school and took me for ice cream—our routine now on Fridays—and I didn’t complain since Mom never kept deserts in the house while I was there during the week, convinced too much sugar would make me dumb. At the mall, I ordered chocolate, my favorite, but Dad told me to try something different. “Change is good,” he said, so I picked cotton candy because of the colors. Toothpaste blue and flamingo pink. I’d eaten cotton candy before, but the favors tasted weird in ice cream form. I must’ve been making a face because Dad said, “Give it a chance.”
 
That night in his new apartment, we sat on fuzzy green recliners in front of the TV and watched the late-late news. There were plans to rebuild the bridge, but it would take years. “What will the people do in the meantime?” I asked. Dad sipped his beer and said, “Anything they have to.”