It wasn’t much of a flow. It was shallow, with swans gliding in the bridge’s lee. It was what it represented that mattered. It was the border, and it was a divide, even if only for road traffic.
He stood and watched the water as it quickened in the channels between the pilings. What had his mother always said? “Water under the bridge;” that was it. He had always taken it as a reassuring statement. Didn’t it mean, “The past is the past, just let it go,” but now he was unsure.
Watching the water, he could see that while it does move on, there is always more to replace it. The waters keep coming, you just can’t let the waters go.
“Are life’s past failings the same way? Are our mistakes doomed to repeat themselves? Why even bother?” he thought to himself.
Then shaking himself, he grasped at the idea, “Maybe the new water will be cleaner, fresher, a new start that can just let the old waters flow away.”
“It was worth a try,” he concluded, and made his way to the bridge, a new country, and a new start.