I remember the board laid flat,
a map of tiny betrayals and advances.
Mom’s hands, organized, patient as clockwork,
Grandma’s laughter, a breeze through curtains.
The pieces click—red, blue, green.
Each move a step closer, then back.
\"Sorry,\" someone says, not meaning it,
the word a formality, shorthand for regret.
Grandma grins, knack for sly revenge.
Mom surveys the board like a general.
I twitched with the joy of conspiracies,
that minor treachery of sending someone home.
The game stretched into the slow hours,
the sun melting across the windowsill.
We weren\'t playing—just living in circles,
a small war staged atop kitchen wood.