Keith Parker

I haven’t won a game of chess since. I still try. I still lose.

I play black.

He plays white.

He is my son.

A girl in high school taught me the Sicilian Defense and how to castle a king.
You never forget a girl who teaches you something dangerous.

I play black.

He plays white.

He is my son.

The girl from high school, her mascara smudged, pulled me away from the casket. She once taught me the Dragon Variation. Now her fingers dug into my sleeve while my son lay inside a lacquered box the color of burnt rosewood.