I feel as if I have been crossing over a creek on mossy rocks all year. It seemed as though this creek was shallow and narrow enough to cross easily, but the rocks I must use to do so are incredibly slippery making the journey slow and arduous. Every step is messy; my arms flail about as I try to catch my balance constantly. I have not fallen yet, but I feel as if it is only a matter of time until I am too tired to take the extra care that is needed to cross over this slippery grimy route safely.
I see people skipping with ease over a nearby bridge that traverses this seemingly little creek; a bridge I never had access to. Great is the disdain I feel towards them. They don't even glance my way and if they do, by the time they have reached the other side they have forgotten about the girl struggling to find her steps on the grimy rocks. Why couldn't I have used the bridge? I ponder. I know it never was an option for me, but I can't help but be consumed by that question.
I look to the right, away from the bridge and am reminded that my Dad is there holding my hand. I had forgotten he was even there. And then I realize, my Father is in the creek with me, not on the bridge. To have had access to the bridge and have gone that route would mean the absence of my Father. In my heart of hearts I know I am right where I am supposed to be.
I think back to the beginning of my journey over the creek and, to my surprise, I recall time spent with Dad not my fumbling steps or near tumbles into the water. I realize that this time we've spent together crossing over these slippery rocks is invaluable to our relationship, but I can't help but feel I have had enough invaluable time and now that my legs are weary and my body is shaking I would kill for some solid ground. Though that's how I feel, and I don't understand why I haven't reached the other side yet, I decide to remain where I am because I trust that my Dad is no where close to leaving my side.
So I continue to fumble, walking slowly. Anxiously awaiting the moment when I reach the other side to rest my legs and tell everyone who used the bridge The Grand Tale of how my Father and I crossed the creek.