Crossing the Bridge

There's only one road on to an island ... and only one road off.

Sometimes they collide as they did last night and there's no getting on or off an island without a boat or swimming.

Last night was such a night.

Picking up Maddie, our 14 year old, from a Homecoming Celebration at the Benedictine Academy complete with a bonfire fueled by teenage lust and hormones, she climbs in the car excitedly chatting about boys and asking "Can we go through a drive through? I'm starved."

I remember when I could eat like that!

The good old days!

Every fast food place is full as we zip pass because I refuse to wait in line until we get to the Wendy's on Wilmington Island and as I turn, I see the flashing blue lights and the officer placing orange cones in the road.

"This isn't good," I say to Mad.

Strolling inside she orders crap and we find a table.

Our dear friend Wen McNally and her daughter Ava join us and we speculate on what's happened.

Sarah's texting it's a wreck with a fatality.

Wendy decides it's the perfect time to close so we all make our way outside in the dark. Chu's Liquors and the Convenient Store agree and also close with several hundred people parked outside.

"The Flying Fish" ... a terrific seafood restaurant across the four lane is open ... so Mad and I make our way there.

It's a reunion of Tybee people stuck in the night ... ordering drinks and join the anticipation of the opening of the bridge ... such is life on an island.

Then the news hits ... Susan was killed.

Susan was something.

A billion stars packed inside a diminutive body with a blazing smile that lights dark places, she's riding her Moped home and ... a car doesn't see her ... and the world changes in an instant.

A piece of joy disappears on a bridge.

The night grows darker.

Our drinks become tasteless ... jokes evaporate ... a sadness blankets something islanders turn into a party.

Susan's one of us.

Life is a gift none of us asked for but each of us share. All gifts are to be celebrated while you have them because you never know how long they're going to last.

Our island lost the beautiful spirit of Susan Allen Bartoletti last night and if you were fortunate enough to experience her you understand joy because you saw it shine in her.

The bridge opens near 1:30 in the morning and Mad and I get home at 2:00.

A worried Sarah's waiting and, though exhausted, there is joy we are together again having survived the dark places.

I believe ... I'm not sure how ... but I'm pretty certain ... Susan's experiencing something very similar in a much more glorious way right now.