I wrote a post on the pain and horror of others hurt by this and I didn’t want this tied to that one. They have my tears, heart and soul right now. But having lived there over 30 years I have been getting floods of memories in regards to the Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge all morning while it dawns on me I’ll never see it again…. ever. That is astounding.

The memory that came first was a field trip I chaperoned and also learned all about the bridge, how and why it matters and how American spirit and heart dwelled well under this bridge long before it was built. When you go to places like that with your child, it seems to make it all more festive and meaningful in a patriotic and family way. Ways of a tie to a home. During those school days for me in PA, I learned about the Pennsylvania Dutch on a field trip.

The bridge itself was scary to me. It was open-sided, looked sleek, and slid high over dark waters. Reminiscent of how we all have a tinge of “what if” before we get on a rollercoaster, knowing probabilities damn well…with the bridge, it was exciting and present.

Then, of course, came back other memories like flying through the middle of night on a crotch rocket holding on for dear life as I wished 80 was faster.

I remember meandering across it in a bikini-top Jeep, loving the company, breeze and wind swirling all around me so much I forgot it was there, holding us up.

I remember getting lost and winding up on the damn thing when I didn’t know where the Hell I was or was going after moving there. I love pointless drives. See a side road up a hill that looks interesting? Let’s see!

This bridge was iconic, classic, and named for a man that left us chilling words and song to cherish.

Spangling stars and flags do touch my heart.