The Burnside Project

Essay by carverCollege, UndergraduateA+, February 1996

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I come around the corner, and a smile comes across my face. I love it when there

isn't a crowd. Only two other people braved the chill, and had the will, to get up this

early. Upon arrival, my view is enhanced. Though I've seen it enough to burn an image

into my subconscious, each visit brings new wonder. I climb onto the lower platform,

and quickly scale the small wall to the upper. I nod at the other already standing there.

I've seen him before, but I don't need to know his name. A silent friendship

binds us that rarely needs words. An occasional cheer or wince says more than the daily

chat most are forced to endure. The sound of the second person rolls softly in my ears.

His image creeps into the corner of my eye while I inspect my shoes. I scrub the soles

back and forth on the pavement, out of habit, to insure a dry surface.

I don't bother to

watch him. I can hear him rolling smoothly down low. His slow, relaxed warm up run

tells me he probably arrived short time ago. He makes his way up the back wall and his

wheels go silent. The other one puts his foot on his tail and effortlessly rolls his truck

over the coping. I watch him quickly drop away and coast to the hip. He glides past it,

and I start to notice the entire view before me as he blends into a larger picture.

I see grey. Every shade of grey, in all its variety blends and curves from the

lightest near whites, to a deepness rivaling black. The darkness overhead drones with the

sound of a thousand automobile tires humming on the top of the bridge. Though

designed for another purpose,