Walking from the Mon Wharf parking lot this morning, I passed, the pylons for the Wabash Bridge. The bridge is long gone, along with a fabulous building of the same name.
But when I first moved to Pittsburgh in the early 1980s, the amputated pylons had flagpoles on them. The flags were just tall strips of colored fabric, but they made the relics seem that some part of the present recognized their past. Gradually, the flags faded and frayed and today the pylons are unadorned except for more than a century's worth of soot, grime, coal dust and other noxious lichens.
As I walked, the soles of my shoes slapped against the 21st century: A river walk paved in Pennsylvania blue stone that will eventually connect with other trails, but that is, for now, an isolated patch. And not quite as the architect's rendering envisioned. College kids hang out there, and so do the homeless and Canada geese. They all leave trash. People who park on the wharf there just scurry from car to stairway, under the rumbling of interstate traffic overhead.
Still, it's nice. I like it anyway.
Seeing the pylons for the millionth time this morning, I thought of all the lives, buildings, dreams and plans that have rushed by, faded and blossomed, or died in the years since they were built. And still, there they are. Worn, weathered and pretty much forgotten, but reminders of the passage, and deep richness, of time.
(No photo tonight. Blogger not in an upload mood.)
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