Crossing that Bridge

We cross lots of bridges (and probably burn a few too) in our lifetimes but crossing nine miles over Tampa Bay on the Howard Franklin on my way to St. Pete is one of my favorites.  Be Prepared To Be Pleasantly Surprised, is the saying purported on St. Petersburg’s city website and I am. I roll my windows down no matter what the weather (except driving rain) and breathe in the salty sea air (and if the traffic is backed up some good old exhaust fumes too). I let the wind tangle my hair. I turn the radio up loud. I look for dolphins (yes even when I am driving!) I check out anhinga drying their wings as they perch on the street lamps along with seagulls and an occasional osprey. I watch the pelicans as they seemingly fly effortlessly under the radar parallel to the waters of the bay. No matter what my mood the sights and smells of the bay work magic. Dark and frothy, blue with little white caps or steely smooth like a mirror, just crossing lifts my spirits. If I have a car full of grandkids the magic works on them too. A hush falls over the back seats, ear buds pop out, and they stop asking, “Are we there yet?” The argument over who ate the last Cheetos is forgotten. A single unspoken thought sparks a smile in our hearts. We are crossing the bridge to home.