Estimated reading time: 4 minutes
I’m sure people thought we were such an odd couple. Sixty years separated us. Not to mention the language, gender and cultural differences. It was the charity that connected us. There was, as you’d expect, some trepidation at first. After all, what could you possibly have in common with someone at that age? Born and raised in a different part of the world. In a different era. But then again…only one hour, once a week. Why not?
That first meeting was difficult, I won’t lie. The simple act of sitting down in front of a complete stranger and…talking. The coordinator had assured me things would improve. Trust takes time. We had to become comfortable with one another.
Gradually, as the weeks progressed, we opened up, sharing our own challenges. Contrasting backgrounds and circumstances suddenly became more relatable. We talked about the major events that helped shape our lives. The Russia-Ukraine conflict and the Irish Civil War. Immigration. Unemployment. There was lively debate and discussion and it was refreshing to see life through the other’s lens.
Despite being at opposite ends of our life journey, common concerns were discussed. Fond reflections about friends and family, career ambitions, and various financial stresses. A few tears were shed. Regrets about the past. Worries about the future. Secret hopes and dreams that we still harboured, never sharing with others for fear of ridicule.
Mind you, it wasn’t all serious and sober. The weekly chats which took place at the kitchen table with a mug of warm coffee soon evolved to cards. Seemed like we were both young at heart. Bridge was our battleground. Fiercely competitive, the hour sometimes stretched into two. Not that anyone was counting. Background music accompanied our marathon sessions. The previous week’s winner could choose. The contrast in Ukrainian versus Irish music across the decades was interesting to say the least!
One evening stands out. Exactly one year after our first meeting and there was a real friendship blossoming. On a hot summer day, cards didn’t hold much interest for either of us. As luck would have it, the circus was in town and I suggested going to see the big show. It was very different to the last time I had been there. Instead of actual lions and tigers, there was a focus on death-defying stunts and dazzling acrobats. I’m smiling as I write this. It was one of the highlights of our time together.
Not long after, the visitations became scarcer. Of course, nothing lasts forever, and the coordinator had warned that sometimes people move on, relocate or their circumstances change. Even still, I grew to miss our chats. That Tuesday night was sacred. It was our time. Something to look forward to every week. Comparing insights across three generations. Not to mention those tense card games whenever we had exhausted all avenues of conversation. Sometimes there was an even greater bond formed during silence. Despite the international and generational differences, there’s more that binds us than we realise.
Normally, we’d confirm plans by text message, a few hours before our 7pm ‘date’ as we jokingly called it. This was in case one of us had a last minute change of plans. Friends or relatives in town, or an unscheduled doctor visit. Always two words.
Game on?
The response. Game on.
Three weeks went by without a message. Finally, the charity called directly and informed me of the news. It was a rare form of blood cancer. Untreatable. It had advanced rapidly.
I suppose there were signs, looking back. Paleness. Pain in even the smallest movements. There was a lethargy and concerted effort in those final games we shared, I could tell. My playing partner – selfless, right to the end.
They were kind enough to share details of the funeral. It was well attended. Family, friends and wellwishers from far and wide, also impacted by the warmth and generosity of that same spirit.
My Tuesday’s are no longer the same. I don’t know what I’ll do without my bridge buddy. But what I do know is that I’ll forever treasure the memories, the music and most importantly, our friendship.
Natasja was only twenty-six years old when she passed.
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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