Jumper

Driving across the Sellwood Bridge just before 2am I saw a man crouched upon the concrete railing looking down at the water. Though my car moved at least 35mph, his image seems slowed, stuck there in a warm glow. He grasped his shoes, arms about his denim knees; with brown hair above his maroon t-shirt. The choice to stop quickly passed and degenerated into the question of why I hadn't stopped as the road curved off the bridge towards downtown and still no place to pull over and start walking back. I crossed the solid white line, turning around and trying to figure out how to get back on the bridge. As I turned off the onramp back onto the bridge towards SE Portland, a cop car approached from behind, lights flashing and I couldn't tell if the lights flashed for me, or the jumper, or for some destination far beyond the bridge.

The off ramp launched me back onto 99 as Damien Rice shouted that he remembered December. I drove back towards the bridge. Lights from two cop cars circled at the entrance, and as I drove past I could not tell if the jumper remained or if they had gotten there too late.

Images of deep cuts on a slender neck left by converse laces pulse through my head. A couple of weeks ago, my shrink told me she thinks I wonder if Amanda died, and I said no. I still say no. I still think the memories make the problem. What to do with that.