I told myself not to write a column about the disturbing collapse of the 35W Bridge. So many have, what could I possibly add? It’s difficult to think about anything else, though.
     My husband called that evening. "Turn on the TV," he said.
     I didn’t want to look but couldn’t turn away; switching off the television was unthinkable. I’m probably not the first person to say it was like 9/11 or Hurricane Katrina.
     My husband and I had crossed the same bridge only two weeks before. It had been under construction; we moved slowly but never felt we were in danger as repair work went on right before our eyes. Now, it was a twisted crumpled mess with cars, trucks, and even a school bus strewn every which way. Why that day?
     "What ifs" popped into my head. I saw myself in my car and imagined what it would be like if a rumble began beneath my tires or something snapped before my eyes. Stuck in traffic one moment; sliding, slipping or dropping the next.
     Would I have had the presence of mind to open my windows to prepare for an emergency exit in case my car ended up in the river? I learned to tread water at the Minneapolis Athletic Club years ago but, in a state of panic, would my lessons have come back to me? Would my arms have grown tired before I could find a chunk of concrete to catch hold of? Would my voice have gotten stuck in my throat before I could scream for help?
     Before that day, there was only one bridge I’d been afraid to cross. It’s in Florida and is so high and so long, I hold my breath every time we traverse it. I’ve never felt unsafe at home, though. After all, in order to get almost anywhere, you cross one bridge or another. Mendota, Cedar Avenue, Stone Arch, Wabasha.
     I grew up along the Minneapolis River Road; midway between Lake Street and Franklin. My father’s sister, Aunt Kaye, was convinced the Lake Street Bridge was unsafe. All the years we lived there, even though the bridge was the shortest and quickest way to travel between our houses, Aunt Kaye went out of her way, taking a longer route and a different bridge than the one just five blocks from our home. We all chuckled at her idiosyncrasy, but she was steadfast in her certainty the bridge would topple at any moment.
     Six years after Aunt Kaye passed on, a new Lake Street Bridge had been constructed. Crews worked to destroy the old wrought-iron span bridge, the second oldest to cross the Mississippi. It took two tries with explosives to bring that old bridge down. Even knowing that, I can no longer chuckle as I tell the story of Aunt Kaye’s fear. It’s all too real now.
     Just the other day, driving to meet our son and his family in Roseville, we traveled more overpasses than I dared count. With the 35W tragedy still fresh in my mind, I felt like Aunt Kaye, eying each one suspiciously. Is this how it will be? Looking at every bridge as potentially unsafe, unable to go merrily along my way?
     Those in charge have promised to pay attention to the country’s bridges. Will they? Or will they breathe a sigh of relief that more people weren’t killed and continue to use bandages when major surgery is needed?
     Who can we trust to make this right for the families who grieve? To give their loss meaning? And the rest of us peace of mind.