“Did you go to your game night tonight?” Maga asked.
“I did.”
“How’d you do?”
“Third place.”
“Well, that’s great.”
I acknowledged the good cheer and ignored the fact we’d been in first place the majority of the evening. “You played games in college, right?”
“Oh, sure.”
“So, when you played bridge, how’d it go? Like did you play in a specific room or at dinner or after dinner?”
“Well, we had dinner in the dining room, so that would have been hard to play cards in there. We played after supper…” She trailed off.
And I laid off pushing for more about the time before she met her husband, my grandfather, because I could tell from her tenor that the tendrils of her memories were too fine to grasp tonight. But, no matter how much or how little she remembered, I was a sponge for any detail because those times she experienced were in the same region of the world I’m in now, and yet, so very far away from what I’m currently living. In era, dress, love, finances, culture, and food.
“It’s a strange world,” Maga said. “Lots of ups and downs.”
It didn’t matter what she was specifically referencing; it was apt, it was true, and in the midst of it all, at least we had each other.
Abigail Mumford 