There are eleven bridges that stretch across the Willamette. Eleven stitching this city together. And one that trails off, taking me home. This last one crosses the Columbia. There are many more bridges that cross the Columbia, and other stretches of the Willamette, but I don't use those. No. I have my eleven bridges and my one bridge. I have my twelve bridges.
I also have twelve notes on my piano. Seven white and five black. They repeat endlessly throughout my life. My voice hits them in patterns as I hold groups of them in my hands. The sound waves vibrate in my ribcage, which is made up of twelve bones that stretch out from my center like the wings of a butterfly.
I watched a cartoon the other day where someone hit the bare ribs of a skeleton as if they were the metal keys of a xylophone. Twelve ribs bridge over empty chest cavities and produce melodies made up of twelve notes when hit by a cartoon elephant with rummer-tipped mallets.
I get behind the wheel of my car and traverse the twelve bridges that are my cities ribs and they make up my life's musical scale. Each note rings out pure and true under my spinning wheels.
