The Bridge Is Burning

In this monologue for men from the play, “The Bridge Is Burning”, Devon grapples with the memories of his father on a bridge.

DEVON: I see my father in my hands, you know? The way they shake when I’m angry, the way they ache from work. It’s like he handed me his life without asking if I wanted it. He used to stand here, right here on this bridge, staring at the water like it had the answers he couldn’t find. He’d grip the railing so hard his knuckles would go white, but he never jumped. Never even leaned over far enough to test fate. He just… stood. Silent. Like the water was listening, but it never talked back.

He never told me what he saw. Never told me much of anything. It was always in the way he looked at you—like you were supposed to already know. Like the words would’ve cracked open something he wasn’t ready to deal with. And now, here I am. Same bridge. Same silence. Same damn weight on my shoulders, trying to hold up this family when I don’t even know if there’s anything left to hold.

Mom says I’m the glue, but what if I’m the thing that’s breaking us? What if I’m not holding it together? What if I’m just… stretching us thin until we snap? Every argument, every fight, it’s like I see the pieces flying off and I can’t catch them fast enough.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. Trying to see what he saw. If the water showed him something he couldn’t explain. If he was searching for something to make sense of it all, just like me. But the thing is… the bridge didn’t burn when he stood here. It’s not burning now.

Maybe it’s not the bridge that’s burning. Maybe it’s me. And if that’s true… what the hell do I do with that?

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