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Game Night.

Every Thursday is family game night and we play Sorry.

Not even God could supersede plans that day, sorry.

It’s my week to set the pieces, and I am meticulous and focused.

I shuffle the cards, and place the deck on a black-and-gray Sorry.

My father, my mother, my brother and I take our places.

A circular table holding a square board; set for four-way Sorry.

I look around the table, my soul fixated on capturing this moment.

My soul, the futurist, knows that this memory is why you delay Sorry.

Dad played for Love; mom for Joy; brother for Family.

I played for the Win, praying for the card where I point and say, “Sorry!”

Serendipity found companionship with Love, Joy, and Family.

She would elude me, again this week; it’s my fate to always play sorry.

I lashed out; pieces flew and cards strew. Love, Joy, and Family hid.

In that moment, I knew our ritual was defiled; yet, I couldn’t say sorry.

Every Thursday is another night and the board game collects dust.

Despite our best efforts, family plans are met by someone’s “hey, sorry”.

We never played again — Corey, is that your fault? Distance

built a home in our relationships; would that change today if I say “sorry?”


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