This is not a poem, more an introspective. I’m trying something new :)

Dear Whoever You Are,

If you never do anything for the rest of your life, just know that you have saved one.

I was biking to the bridge on my old, red bike. It still has the scars of when I yanked the training wheels off as a little eight-year old, desperate to be biking for real. I remember tracing my hands over the scars. The bike had nobody left to care about it. It could come with me.

The bridge? Golden Gate, to be specific. There was traffic at this time, strange, unreasonable, clustered traffic that made my knees tremble as I pedaled harder. So many people, but I was so, so alone.

I got off my bike. I can still feel the cigarette burn sting against the back of my throat. My fingers moved like lead as they fumbled with my helmet clasp. The night air was cold. Cut through my clothes like a knife. But I didn’t care anymore. Why would I?

The traffic was getting worse. Flashing lights, beeps, honks, tarnishing the still air. Windows opened, voices screamed, people shook their heads and flipped each other off. So much power in so many voices. What great sound they had made in that moment, for something as simple as road rage. I thought numbly if that voice could ever be used for anything that mattered.

I took a deep breath. The edge was right there. I wasn’t an idiot. Why couldn’t I do it?

Nobody in this life cared about me. Nobody would bat an eye if I died, right here, right now.

Well, maybe my mother would care. She’d sit by my portrait she’d have hung up above our mantle, cry a few tears, and move on. My mother is not sentimental. When things are done, they are done, and there is no reason to grieve over something long lost.

My father wouldn’t care. He’d come to my funeral, his face red, his eyes puffy, his voice broken, but deep down, he wouldn’t care. My father has always been soft, but only for my mother. He wasn’t built to be a parent, never was. I couldn’t blame him for not caring about something that just took up space.

Maybe my brother could care. He hasn’t even looked at me since he’s gone to college. I know he cares. I’ve heard his voice when he talked about me, sweet and saccharine and dripping with warmth. He loved me. But it’s been so long, and when I think of his face, it comes up as a blurry photo.

I am like my mother in that way. He is gone. There is no reason to grieve over someone long lost.

I am long lost. This bridge isn’t an ultimatum, or a catalyst, or anything else fancy - it’s the end. On the other side of this bridge is the unknown. I do not know if I’m willing to face it.

That night, you honked at me. You could have chosen to honk at the old lady moving like a snail in front of you, or shout at the guy next to you blowing smoke out his window, but you looked at me and decided to make me miserable that day. You looked right at me and shouted, “Either jump off or bike away! We don’t need another blockage on the road today!”

I was startled at the sound of your harsh voice. You looked at me with cold, stern eyes. I couldn’t see even a hint of pity, empathy. Just…annoyance. And I could see another face. A small girl in the backseat, gazing at me with moony blue eyes.

At that moment, I realized that if I jumped off today, I wouldn’t be long lost. I would be remembered. By you. By that child. If even for only a moment, for a month, for a year; I would be remembered and alive.

I couldn’t do that. Not in front of her, not in front of you, not in front of anyone. I couldn’t do it if someone was looking. That was it. Someone looked. Someone saw. Someone noticed, and suddenly I was filled with a rush of hot shame, and all I wanted to do was run.

So I ran.

I grabbed my bike and swung myself onto the seat. I caught a glimpse of fleeting relief in your eyes. It wasn’t for me. The traffic had just cleared. You zoomed away without another moment’s hesitation.

That night, my brother came back from college. He caught me by the arm and asked me where I had been. He looked me, in the eyes, and his eyes were the same dull blue as that girl’s had been, and suddenly my stomach was twisting and I was crying in his arms.

So, thank you. Stranger. Passenger. Driver. You didn’t intend to save a life. But you did. So…thank you?

I will never meet you again. You will probably forget about this letter in a week. I just wanted to know, I will never forget you.

How could I forget the man that had saved my life?

Sincerely,

Citizen