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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