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.
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Comments2
Funny how much you can get to know about a person playing a game with them. This poem brought images and feelings of family unity and joy from times past when people actually spent time together. A lovely feel.
The same feeling came back to me while I was writing it and it brought tears to my eyes. We often played cards and board games on the kitchen table. Thanks Soren
BRAVO
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