Rosie of the Bridge

 

Strong and severe, powerful and expansive, weathered, productive, and responsible, this was the bridge that Rosie stared at in wonder and amazement. A masterful creation tying three of N.Y.C.’s boroughs together, saving time and inconvenience for the army of residents that used it daily. With broad shoulders and strong wide footings, it stretched itself over the East River and the Sound. It connected Queens, Manhattan and the Bronx. Day and night, in rain, hail, snow or sunshine, through all the seasons, year after year the bridge stood doing its job.

 

Rosie was like a movie star surrounded by her paparazzi in the rose bed. Friends and relatives were drawn to her wishing to emulate her beauty. The bees and insects we’re attracted to her particular shade of petals which were the talk of the garden. One morning in late summer while Rosie sunned herself in the warming rays of the morning sun, a Cecil B. De Mille/Charlton Heston/James Earl Jones typed voice impinged on her repose.

 

“Good morning Rosie, I could not help but smell the beautiful fragrance of your blossoms this morning,” said the Bridge.

 

“Why thank you!”  blurted out Rosie, blushing and surprised that such a busy structure would take the time out to speak to an insignificant flower.

 

“You certainly brighten things up around here, as it can be quite boring and uneventful ferrying all these motorized ants incessantly streaming across my back. I might add that I have picked up a very colorful vocabulary from listening to the occupants of these vehicles screaming obscenities at each other, but very little that I could repeat in mixed company,” said the bridge.

 

“Yes, I’m sure it must be tedious,” said Rosie, wondering if her tone was too familiar when speaking to a bridge, never before having engaged in conversation with such an impressive structure.

 

“Yes, tedious is an understatement, but enough about me, how do you like summering in the park? “Inquired the bridge.

 

“It is very beautiful and peaceful most of the time. I heard a passing human mention that the Perseids meteor showers were starting tonight, which is a sign that my time is coming to a close.” 

 

“Well, that is true but remember that you are a perennial. When your petals fall, they will feed Mother Earth, and next spring you will be reincarnated to live another summer. While you sleep through the Winter, I must stand in all sorts of nasty weather completing my duties,” said the bridge trying to cheer her up. Beauty is fleeting and ephemeral only lasting a short time. I only look good for a few months after a new paint job,” uttered the bridge. “True beauty is eternal in the form of generosity or compassion which I am sure you are endowed with. These forms of beauty are unaffected by the vicissitudes of the physical world,” philosophized the bridge.

 

“By the way you can call me TriB, that is what all the tunnels and bridges in the transportation community call me.”

 

“Oh, Ok TriB, I will”, said Rosie and thank you for the compliment.” She felt honored to be on such familiar terms with the bridge.

 

“Also thank you for bringing the work trucks with supplies for the gardens, and the gardeners also who attend to our needs,” said Rosie.

 

“You are most welcome; it is the least I can do for all the beauty that you and your fellow roses bring to Astoria Park!” boomed the towering grey structure.

 

“Thank you again! “Answered Rosie blushing again.

 

Rosie did start to fade soon after the Perseid showers had ended but tried to remember the wise observations of the bridge, that she would bloom again next spring to enjoy another season and rekindle her friendship with TriB.

 

Jim

June 2021