It wasn’t so much that I played a rousing game of Memory tonight. Or that my son, with whom I played, kept checking on the same two pieces only to find they were still not matches.
No…no…it wasn’t that.
It was that the game–the box, the lid, the square pictures, the whole thing–was mine. From, uh, three decades ago.
Which says something, I suppose. About my mom. Who…
who had no business saving a game ain’t nobody played since the second grade. Only she did. Which makes me smile. Because… there’s just something I can’t articulate about turning over the same cards with my son that I once cherished in my four-year old heart.
I could not have forseen this moment. Nor planned it even yesterday.
My game. My kid.
My Our joy.