There are moments that define us. Moments, that as you stand on the bridge, swaying from the booze, or maybe it’s the fear, staring into the abyss, that you know will change your life forever. Moments, when you know, you’re going to jump.

I was a junior in college when I fell in love for the second time in my life. And I mean, I fell hard, in love, with Billy Kissell. He was in my class that summer, an archaeological dig, he also worked at the same bar I did. We became instant friends and laughed as we referred to each other as brother and sister. Something that both saddened and invigorated me. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be his sister, but on the other hand, he cared for me enough to see me as family. It was a confusing time for me.

Billy brought out the crazy in me. We partied too hard, ditched class, slept in. I was willing to put my future in jeopardy on the off-chance that he would think I was cool enough, and good enough to be with him. This dig was my chance to experience my chosen field first-hand. Dr. Prezzanno had high hopes for me and each day that Billy and I rolled up to the dig, in my car, having missed the van, almost on time or often quite late I saw that hope in me fading, but I didn’t care. That’s not true, I did care, but I couldn’t stop it. It was like an addiction. I had never felt this way before and I didn’t know how or didn’t want to know how to manage it. We’d leave at lunch to go the IGA for food, while everyone else ate packed lunches at the site. We’d laugh and cut up the whole time about how much trouble we were in and how much trouble we were. At night we’d party at his house, playing Zoomy Zoomy or Asshole and staying up into the wee hours of the morning.

The culminating night for us was when we drove out to what I call Mill Creek. It may or may not have been called that, but in my memory that was what it was a called. A small off-shoot of the Clarion River, down a long, steep, winding dirt road through the woods, to a pull-off and an old bridge. We stripped down to our underwear and climbed up on the bridge railing. I’ll never forget the feeling, his hand in mine, the darkness surrounding us, the water whispering below us. I was so afraid. I was so alive.

We fell forever that night. Into the dark, into the deep. I can still remember the rush of the air as we dropped. The sharp, jarring shock of the water as it first struck and then engulfed us. The joy and the laughter as we climbed up time and time again to jump off the Mill Creek Bridge. It’s a moment frozen in the time of my memory. Distorted, glossed-over I’m sure, but it is there and it reminds me.

Class ended a few days later and I didn’t see Billy very much after that. Whatever we had was gone. Lost forever to that summer. I resumed my studies, buckled down and got on with life.

I’m 41 now. Sometimes I look back on this memory with a strange sense of longing and nostalgia, sometimes I look back on it with a sense of horror at what could have happened. I guess that’s just the nature of growing older and dare I say wiser? Regardless of how I remember it, I am thankful for it.

We all need a Billy Kissell in our lives. We all need something to rock us off our axis and tilt our world so that we remember to live. Life is full of moments we let pass us by because we’re too afraid to take the leap. I’d like to think that if faced with jumping off of the Mill Creek Bridge at two o’clock in the morning again, I’d politely decline, but part of me isn’t so sure. Part of me knows…I’d jump.