The Words Not Spoken
Staying awake until bedtime is no joke in what is called “the country,” where sleep arrives like a surprise guest –don’t get me wrong, a friendly, welcome guest. But, if you’re not careful, you’ll wake up on the couch, board-stiff, glasses athwart the bridge of your nose, book still open, as if you’d read while you slept, from eight-thirty, supper done, until one. (Why does this make me think of nails growing in the grave?)
So we’ve adjusted our regimen –not to say, ritual. I organize the dishes, you set up the board, plus accessories: dictionary, pencil, paper bag full of tiles, those little racks where some people hide their letters (we don’t), and, finally, the sheet of paper to keep score. We use each sheet until it’s full, a sort of living history –no, living arithmetic.
Sometimes, I let you pick for me, the who-goes-first letter, while I get things started over at the sink. This works out well. You plan your move and, ten feet away, I wash, rinse, rack. (No talking, though.) Then, I plan my move, while you (no fear of falling asleep) get on with your book. The game (and dishes and reading) proceed.
Some turns, of course, something special happens –perhaps (though not only) a You-Know-What, which focuses the mind wonderfully. After one of those, we drop book and dishes (not literally, of course) and plot our moves simultaneously, like children absorbed in –what is it called?– parallel play. In other words, we get serious.
Did I imply, at the start of this, that our game is a ritual, as well as a regimen? When one of us says, “Let’s play fast, no half-hour turns,” then proceeds to ignore the agreed-upon rule (not to mention the “no fishing” one, impervious to definition), is that not a ritual, of sorts? Or, at least (to come out and say it, at last), a mirror of married life?
—Waterways, Jan. 2022