• Bridge Ladies

    Bridge Ladies Sometimes I think a meteor could strike the earth and wipe out mankind with the exception of my mother’s Bridge club — Roz, Bea, Bette, Rhoda, and Jackie — five Jewish octogenarians who continue to gather for lunch and Bridge on Mondays as they have for over fifty years. When I set out to learn about the women behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, and most of all the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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A Saxophone Someplace Far Off Played

 

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Every year I sit with my mother for Yom Kippur services. I space out for most of it, hum along with prayers I learned years ago, stare at the stain glass panels searching for imperfections, read the prayer book randomly like people who spin a globe and go to wherever their finger lands. The music is familiar, heavy. Waves of sadness move through me. My father. My sister. The young son of an old friend. I say I hate coming, but I’ll miss it when she’s gone. I’ll miss everything.

May you be written in the book of life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

11 Responses

  1. Beautifully stated. Happy, healthy new year to you–and may you be written in the book of life!

  2. And also in you.

  3. My page in the book may have curled corners, a few folds and tears but so far, the binding is strong.

  4. There is envy in me for the rituals of certain religions. The movements, prayers, comfort from routines by attending for years.

    My path has been sporadic at best, but I hope I’m written there, even if in the smallest font, and with invisible ink.

  5. Thank you, Betsy. May you, likewise, be written in the book of life.

  6. Thank you, Betsy. It’s a very large book you mention, one made from the pulp of a sacred tree and inscribed with ink from the sea, red darkening to black. Me? I’m in that “strange hotel with the neon burnin’ bright.” My room overlooks the harbor. Those who own a piece of my heart have gone before. Ships come in all night and set sail before the break of day.

  7. Thank you, Betsy, and you as well.

  8. Thank you. And you as well.

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

  9. Blessings to you, Betsy.
    In France they use real candles in the churches. I will light one for you sometime.

  10. Bob Dylan, Nobel Literature Prize. Sometimes things go just right.

  11. The fast is over. At the brown brink eastward springs a New Year.
    Thank you, Betsy, and Shana Tovah to you.

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