Who cares about the bridge? Even the people born and raised in our town do not have an idea of its origin, except that spooky stories are associated with the place.

For many, it is an insignificant structure built by some nameless people. Should it collapse tomorrow, nobody will mourn, I tell you.

My view of the bridge’s insignificance was heightened when no one can tell me the exact date of its construction. However, one look and there is no doubt of its antiquity.

The crumbling edifice makes me think of a scene in one of those medieval movies. The big old woods that serve as its railings are now decaying. The floors are unreliable. The columns that support the roof have lost their strength. The bridge might surrender anytime.

Although there were attempts to preserve the bridge, but its present condition suggests many years of neglect.

The bridge’s name is Bakong, after the river below it. But very few people know that. The growing demand of the people for modern infrastructures gave the bridge a new name.

A new Bakong Bridge was built for the highway. It is made of metals and concrete, definitely stronger than that of the old wooden bridge at the far corner of the town. The new bridge got the name and the aged one became The Old Bridge.

The Old Bridge became more unwanted intensified by the eerie stories about it. My grandmother had managed to tell me dark stories of the bridge, that her mother also told her when she was still a child. And I am sure that every one in town, from the oldest to the youngest, heard the stories of ghosts and enkantos who, the old folks say, dwells in that place.

Nothing is really significant about that. In an old town where people are very superstitious, almost every place is an abode to the unseen.

No one really cares about its history. Instead, we panic on its legends. And years of molding its urban tales earned for it the reputation of being dangerous.

For us, one thing is clear - the bridge is a dreadful place, no different from the many spots in town with superstitious links - and nothing more.

We only remember it whenever we talk of horror stories. But most of the time, it is left in peace, forgotten and slowly collapsing.

So what makes the old bridge significant? For someone who lives in a place where many view it as nothing but decaying woods and where unseen beings dwell, the answer requires a nose bleeding task.

Why was the bridge built in the first place? If one would take time to examine the bridge, one can imagine its glorious days. It must have been an imposing sight, before time took its grandeur. The thick and heavy lumbers for its foundation, suggests that too much labor was required for its building. And the fact that it outlives many generations proves that it was built to stand time.

Mama told me that it was constructed to provide an easy route to the town’s center. Back then, where only few roads were built, the bridge was the fastest way to the capital.

The bridge must have been busy during those times. Its cool shade had been a blessing to so many travelers. It had served people with different goals – the rich and the poor, the young and the old, the sacred and the profane.

Maybe it had seen the face of the ambitious lad, who left home, so he can try his luck somewhere else. Or, did it hear the dreams of the students who pass by?

How many lovers met there? How many vows of love were said under its shadows?

What decisions were made when men leaned on its balustrade as they contemplate life? Or did it hear the gossips of the women doing laundry by the river?

Innocent laughter must have echoed pleasantly on the structure as children bathed on the waters below.

Perhaps it was also there where a poor farmer uttered a silent prayer - hoping that he can sell his crops for a higher price.

I believe it had witnessed how the widow mourned for her husband as the funeral march crossed the river.

How many desperate souls cling to its railings, thinking that maybe death would end their sufferings?

How did it appear to the frightened families who fled the town because the Japanese forces were approaching?

These are just some of the many possible stories that the bridge resonates. It is sad to say that superstition overshadowed them.

Perhaps because the bridge was too old, that is why it inspires so many stories. And to make the stories exciting, the people peppered them with horror and mysticism. Without realizing that these tales butcher what could have been a dramatic town symbol.

Now, I see the old bridge in a different light. It must have been the pride of the official who conceived it.

It is more than an old structure to me now. It is a labor of love from those nameless people who built it. It is a symbol of unspoken devotion for the town. It is our ancestors’ legacy to us. After all, it was supposed to stand time.

Still, the old bridge continues to echo the story of our town. It speaks of the laughter and sufferings of the people. Yet no one listens. The crumbling monument will someday breathe its last.

I just hope that before this happens the people will see it the way I see it now (or perhaps, even better), so that the stories will not vanish with it.

I wish the bridge will stand longer for my children to see it, so that they too may learn from its lessons.

Because the bridge is a painful reminder that nothing is constant in this world. Like the river below it, everything will flow. One may be glorious and proud but someday he will grow old. There are chances that people may forget his deeds and he will be left to crumble alone.

My prayer is that, unlike the bridge, the next generations may paint me in a positive light. That whatever I do now may create a good impression for the future, so that I will be remembered.

I hope that I too can live longer to tell a deeper story of the bridge. So that it will no longer be unwanted and its symbolic tales may become immortal. (LJC)