Across the Bridge

The river was cold. I didn’t need to touch it to know. Snow had been falling for the past month, and the banks held small shelves of ice. The bridge across the river was to be detonated. It was the kind of place I imagined my first kiss. Or where someone might see me as worthy enough to propose to. 

But on a particular day during the invasion of Ukraine, the bridge would be none of the things I ever wanted it to be. Instead, it would be weaponized. Plastic explosives were wedged between the steel girders of this simple span bridge. Where once I saw a future that looked like cinema in sepia, I see nothing. Nothing beyond surviving the next few minutes. And the next. And the next. 

We were told to cross over. To leave the city. Men were asked to stay. Some women volunteered to stay, to fight. I did not. Not because I am scared. But because this cannot be the future. I must leave, not because I am scared, but because it is my duty to my family to live where all others have died. I am the last of my kin. I must leave. 

What they don’t tell you about evacuations from cities is how terrifying it can be. Like a fire racing through the forest, you cannot dally. No time for small talk and idle chit-chat. Everyone just wants to survive.