I remember it so clearly,
The dark oak of the table,
The smell of her cigarette smoke.
We would sit every night and play
500 Rummy.

Then she started to get weaker.
I would watch in horror
As my grandmother’s hands shook
With every set she put down.

The oak table turned to the
Bland plastic of the one in the hospital
And her cigarettes were replaced with
An IV and an oxygen tank.

The next night
I sat in the living room,
Glaring at the empty table
And the unopened pack of cards.
They mocked me.

I dressed in black today,
When everyone tossed dirt
I tossed an Ace of Spades
And an old Zippo.

all the cards
i have been dealt
are jokers -
its a wonder
i havent gone
all-in

I’ve always believed in closure but not when it pertained to you. You were more concerned with the queen of hearts and having the upper hand (rather than holding the right heart in your hands). You always desired to see what was up the other player’s sleeve but never checked your own. Poker face was not a mask but rather a lifestyle— one you played too well and too often for yourself.

There was never a big picture or a great road ahead of you. Only pit stops for the wandering souls. Life became less of the destination and more of the journey (little did you know where you were headed). You grew to care more about instances and examples rather than purpose and decision. You lacked depth and I pitied you for the shallow grave you had begun to dig.

And perhaps during those finite moments of pity, I realized that closure never existed to you. You see, closure meant answers. And answers meant words. And words meant speech. But the only tenant you contained in your vocabulary was silence. Silence was your upper hand while I was just another player in one of your infinite card games.