The White Bridge

The bright morning sun, beams through my thick beige curtains. Living in the attic has its cons, like being woken up by the sun every morning. With the shadows of leaves dancing on my floor, from the cool breeze. It is Saturday. And every Saturday my dad used to walk me to the bridge. A small, but beautiful white bridge that crosses the river in the forest. But now I go by myself since he passed away many years ago. From a vicious cancer disease. So sometimes I go there to talk to my dad. Tell him how much I miss him and sometimes ask for advice.