Bridgework Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

Some meetings are not arrivals.
They are crossings.

You walk beside someone
long enough to learn the weight of your own steps,
long enough to trust the ground beneath you,
long enough to stop asking
whether you are allowed to be here.

Then the land changes.
Quietly.
Without ceremony.

No door closes.
No hand is withdrawn.
The path simply widens
until walking together
no longer makes sense.

What was given was real.
What was taken was necessary.
Nothing was promised beyond the crossing.

I keep the warmth,
leave the scaffolding,
and step forward
without needing to look back.

Some people are not meant to stay.
They are meant to help you arrive.

The words end here.
The walking does not.
The next stanza is lived.

Onward.