Our weekly game of Scopa has become the best way to pass the time.
When you and I go at it, nothing else matters. Not the pain in your side. Not the latest claim to your living inheritance. Not even the divorce and all the nasty words you heard but maybe don't remember. All your attention is on those old Napolitan cards I picked up in that perfect little Square in Rome. And all my attention turns to you. And every week I pray that you won't forget how to play. That you won't forget how valuable that sette bello is. I can sense how tightly you hold on to these few simple calculations. So I make you deal even if I mix the cards before you do. I love how you always cut the deck in half. How you count the cards to yourself regardless of the outcome. And I breathe a tiny sigh of relief every time the numbers add up.
And whenever Mommy makes a trip downstairs there's always a moment where you draw me close and whisper some obtuse Italian proverb in my ear. Something your mother told you when you were too young to even understand. Forcing it out before mine has a chance to come back into the kitchen. Not because you don't want her to hear. Just because you've been saving it for the right occasion.
I don't always get it. But I smile anyway. I smile with my tired eyes and you smile back with yours. Because you're still by far the wisest person in the room.
When you and I go at it, nothing else matters. Not the pain in your side. Not the latest claim to your living inheritance. Not even the divorce and all the nasty words you heard but maybe don't remember. All your attention is on those old Napolitan cards I picked up in that perfect little Square in Rome. And all my attention turns to you. And every week I pray that you won't forget how to play. That you won't forget how valuable that sette bello is. I can sense how tightly you hold on to these few simple calculations. So I make you deal even if I mix the cards before you do. I love how you always cut the deck in half. How you count the cards to yourself regardless of the outcome. And I breathe a tiny sigh of relief every time the numbers add up.
And whenever Mommy makes a trip downstairs there's always a moment where you draw me close and whisper some obtuse Italian proverb in my ear. Something your mother told you when you were too young to even understand. Forcing it out before mine has a chance to come back into the kitchen. Not because you don't want her to hear. Just because you've been saving it for the right occasion.
I don't always get it. But I smile anyway. I smile with my tired eyes and you smile back with yours. Because you're still by far the wisest person in the room.
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