Passing the Bridge of Sighs

Many years ago, when our marriage had that just-out-of-the-box shine, my husband (G) and I lived in England for a summer. We visited Cambridge and decided to try punting on the river Cam. (Punting, as you probably know, involves steering a long skinny boat with a long skinny pole while standing balanced in the back, like the gondoliers in Venice.) We were students living on love, air, and jacket potatoes so we opted to guide ourselves down the river rather than spend the extra money on a guide.

G had no way of knowing the vision that was playing out inside my head–or how long it had been looping through my rose-tinged dreams. He had no idea that I had snatched him up from where he stood and cast him in a lovely, historical BBC drama (the ones he actively avoids) in which we drift peacefully down the river, trailing fingers in the smooth water, choral music wafting from the King’s College Chapel as we drift on toward the Bridge of Sighs. (And by “we” I meant me.)

Read the rest of this story at segullah.org/blog/
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