The sandstone gleamed in the mornings.
“You ready?” said Michael; Clay nodded.
As the truest of tests, he went below.
He said, “Clay, you stay there—stay out in the light,” and he performed the final dismantling, and the arches were true, still standing; and then came his smile, and the laughter:
“Come here,”
he said, “here, Clay, come under!”
They embraced like boys in the archway.
* * *
—
When we got there, I remember us seeing it.
The bridge looked totally finished, and the sandstone deck rendered smooth.
“Christ,” said Rory, “look at it.”
“Hey,” cried Henry, “there he is!”
He jumped from the moving car:
He stumbled and laughed, then ran and picked him up, and tackled him into the ground.
Again, just one more history.
How boys and brothers love.
* * *
—
In the evening we played football in the riverbed.
It was something that had to be done.
The mosquitoes could barely keep up with us.
The ground was brutally hard, and so we tackled, but held each other up.
There were also moments we stopped, though, and just looked, in amazement, at the bridge—at the monumental deck of it, and the arches, like twins, in front of us. It did stand like something religious, like a son’s and father’s cathedral; I stood by the left-hand arch.
And I knew it was made of him:
Of stone, but also of Clay.
What else could I make myself do?
There were still many things I didn’t know yet, and if I had, I might have called sooner—to where he stood between Rosy and Achilles.
* * *
—