by Carolyn Chilton Casas

The cards are worn,
white edges darkened by hands
that often held them.
They no longer slide easily
like a new deck,
the bicycle-riding cupid
and his reflection faded,
the numbers and letters
jumbo size for older eyes.

On a visit, my daughter asks
me to teach her rummy.
Her boyfriend’s family plays,
and she wants take part.
I point her to the bottom
cupboard where board
games they played as children
occupy a neglected space.

These were grampa’s,
weren’t they?

She must remember
the many cribbage games
at the dining room table
after dishes were washed.
Or watching him play
solitaire nonstop
in his small home on the hill.

When she leaves,
I take the deck tenderly
into my hands, shuffle the cards
the way he taught me.
I deal out a solo game
and reminiscing, begin to play.

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