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On the Bridge at Dawn
In her younger days
could have hopped on top of the wall at the bridge’s edge with one leap. But
that was many years and several stones ago. Now she would need help. Marion
She looked at the wooden box in her hand. She placed it on the floor with deliberation. She knew that it would take her weight. She had tested it last night.
Slowly she climbed on to it.
Damn, she was still too low. She had underestimated the height of the wall.
Her mind raced frantically, desperate to come up with a solution. She had come so far, too far to go back.
She forced the knee on to the top of the wall and looked around for something to pull herself up with. There was nothing.
She put the palms of her hands on the wall and tried to push off from the leg that still stood on the box. Could she support her weight? She would have to.
But she could not.
Wrists weak from arthritis gave way under her bulk, her weight dropping back on to her standing leg. The box underneath that leg slipped under the unusual pressure.
As the leg crumpled she fell backwards and in the split second that it took for her to fall to the floor she noticed with extreme clarity the beauty of the dawn sky. And after the bang of the head on the cobbles came the darkness.
And after that?