Hungry for Chess

He left me. The emptiness I feel inside cannot be filled in any other way. I miss the occasional glances across the travertine marble table, the quiet comments, candles brightening the board, tumblers of Glenlivet Scotch.

Utterances such as “Oh no, I didn’t see that,” “Crap!” and “Can I take that back? My hand was only off the piece for a second” enveloping an otherwise peaceful environ added perfectly to the ambience.

Only once did it end in complete frustration, maybe twice. After all, it’s not about winning, it’s how you play the game.

He left me to move back to Delaware to be closer to his daughters. Although he loved Colorado, skiing, kayaking, gardening, and international travel from this centrally located state, he said, “If something happens to me, it makes more sense for me to be in Delaware than for both girls’ families to come here. You know, I’m almost 82.”

So the next thing I knew, we were throwing a love-filled farewell gathering for George and Jeanne. They had lived in Colorado for about 30 years: she, a retired school nurse, he, a navy guy with a PhD in chemistry who had worked until retirement for DuPont. In Telluride, he’d taken to gardening, and lucky for me, he taught me what I know in that department—and how to drink Scotch.

From spring till autumn, I’d garden with George—he in their gardens, me in mine, then his kindness drew him to help me, probably from pity. He could make a dirt pile become a terraced work of art. I’d pop a silk flower atop the pile and call it a day.

On warm summer afternoons, the three of us, which sometimes grew into eight or more, would enjoy happy hour in our back garden by the fire pit. Life couldn’t be better.

But all year round for about 10 years, George and I played chess together on Thursday nights. It is this game, the mental challenge, and his company I long for most. Unlike racquetball, whose competitiveness I quite enjoy, chess acts like fertilizer coursing through and enhancing my neurological pathways. Unlike golf when everyone’s eyes are on me, we closely watch the board, anticipating our challenger’s next move, and our own. And unlike sex, I don’t have to do it alone.

Our between-game conversations flowed with depth and humor, and our equally challenging Ping-Pong matches kept our hearts beating together. I have thanked Jeanne many times for loaning me her husband on Thursday evenings.

Concurrently and until recently, my daughter would challenge me to three games of chess a night, but as texting has become her favorite pastime, chess with her lacks appeal.

So the invitation is out: Join me for chess Thursday or Friday evenings. I might not be the best, but I’m up for a challenge, and maybe even a Scotch.

The Thing You Gave Away

(Puzzle piece number 6 of 38.)
Have you ever given something away then discovered you really needed it? But you made a commitment, the thing was gone, and it was too late to reclaim it. Kind of like passing a fluffer in public, then wishing it weren’t such a smelly one.

So you walk around glumly for a while, regretting your generosity, kicking yourself with the foot you’ve grown out of your backside, wondering if the recipient would kindly return it to you saying, “Gee, I really don’t think I’ll use this as much as you would, so thanks, but you can have it back.”

But when that winning lottery ticket doesn’t materialize, you gently ease the foot out of your rear and move on, living with the memory of The Thing You Gave Away.

Well, I gave my heart away. I know it sounds a little strange, because here I am, but not entirely.

There are nights when I know my heart’s recipient is stomping all over it, laughing without a care as it bleeds all over the room, thumping to escape its cruel captor.

One night the nebula inside my chest billowed as if something were ready to barge out. It felt like an impatient, hungry beast was lunging for its long-awaited meal. Honestly, I thought I was a goner.

But I lived. The beast apparently got its meal, the billowing subsided, and I winched myself out of bed the next morning.

Perhaps, just as cells replace themselves and some organs regenerate, pieces of the nebula in my chest are attracting more positive energy. Soon the dust and gas particles will congregate, reconstitute, and sing Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild.”

These transformations don’t usually happen when I’m alone at nighttime, though. They emerge when I get out of my house and hike, and laugh with friends, and think of crazy, embarrassing things I’ve done (like accidentally, publicly…), and when I contemplate naughty things I could do to retaliate for the brusque treatment given my heart.

Yes, pretty soon I should be back to a better normal, new heart completely intact, ready to take on the next challenge. Till then, though, I’ll keep my foot on the ground, gas in my SUV, and scarred, or is it scared, heart securely guarded by my pawns.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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