CASTLING THE KING

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.

I play black.

He plays white.

He was my son.

Nobody tells you that grief affects grammar. You can conjugate verbs, but you forget their tense.

I haven’t won a game since.

I don’t play black anymore.

He doesn’t play white.

Tonight, I watched the chess set burn in the fireplace until the kings turned to ash.