When we were seventeen,
We carved our initials
on the inside of this bridge.

Desecrating public property,
Yes. I know.

Thirty some years later
we drove down that same road
to see if we could find the bridge,
the carved initials.

The bridge was there
spanning the little creek.
Newer initials had replaced ours.

Older and wiser,
we no longer needed
to carve our initials
for posterity,
But were happy
with the remembering.

Last year they tore it down.
Carefully.
Every board numbered.
It took almost eight months,
but now it stands again.
Rebuilt. Repainted. Restored.

Cox Farm Bridge. Built 1940. Rebuilt 2013.

I’m grateful for memories, for stories, and for those who care enough about covered bridges to make them historical landmarks.