If I didn’t have the Anzac Bridge to look at when I go walking or glance at when I go driving I would have no choice but to find another bridge – to consider jumping from.
I’m joking, of course, but it’s funny how things can become so important to us.
The bridge provides me with a strong sense of place. A focus. When the rest of the world is falling down I know it’ll be there just being and carrying on.
Think of the things that act as beacons for you. That tree by the door. The soft light in the bookshop window you walk by every day. The street sign near work that bears the same name as your favourite aunt. The stretch of road that turns you towards home.
Those things mark your day. They have a power that wards off loneliness and disenchantment. They are signs that we belong.
I know the Anzac Bridge. I know where I am when I see it. I know where I’m going.
As my feet crunch on maple leaves as I round the bay I catch first glimpse of it and say: Oh, there you are.
It is like greeting an old friend.
It is like always having a place to run to.