For The Bridge Center, Part 2

Ingrid Stocking

My ninety-plus friend lives on floor number five

And wonders why she’s still alive

She reads, she dusts and deals with pain.

She vacuums as she holds her cane.

She gardened with love for fifteen years

With the help of her husband, no longer here.

“There are much better ways to recover from hurt,

Go out in the garden and dig in the dirt.”

She lived her own words, until the end

When sciatica claimed her; she cannot bend.

At the Bridge Center we play on floor number one,

And even the basement – we never are done.

We laugh, we talk, the weather can’t matter

In a room full of friends, all trying to better

The cards, and each other, and understand

The millions of patterns that make up a hand.

We bid, we count, we win, we lose

We strain our brains, in a life we choose.

Some need tanks to take a breath

But as long as they play, they don’t fear death.

Some take time off to have dialysis

And some use card racks to help with paralysis.

Somerset Maugham – I will quote him again:

“When all else fails, it’s Bridge that remains.”

So thank you for having a splendid place

For the Queen of Diamonds, the King of Spades

To capture our hearts, and help with strife

In this game of all games, this game of Life.