A Losing Game

Every day, he wakes up at five AM, not a minute before, not one minute after. He stretches his tired body and puts on his slippers. They are his favorite color, blue. With achy joints and sluggish posture, he makes his way into our kitchen. The smell of coffee fills our home. I watch him as he reads the paper in the recliner next to mine.

I watch as his brow furrows as he meticulously dissects the daily crossword. I watch him give up after twenty minutes. A daily occurrence. I see the look of sadness that has permanently taken up residence on his once young and chiseled face. I see the smile I have known for thirty years, desperately attempting to cover it up. We all play chess with time, and I have yet to see someone win.

I watch as he goes to work as I wonder aimlessly about our home; Pictures frame the walls, moments of our life. I stare at our life displayed like a museum exhibit. Our wedding photo dead center, June 2nd, 1974. The best day of my life. All my best days were with him.

I watch as he comes home from work, more tired than when he left. Another day, another move made by time. Although my husband is an excellent chess player, I fear he is letting his opponent win. I watch as he makes a frozen dinner for two. He takes our wedding photo from the wall and gently caresses it. “You will always look this way to me sweetheart.” He says with his devilish smirk, that has somehow managed to withstand the test of time. I don’t believe him, but it makes me smile none the less. I watch as he climbs into his side of the bed, the same side he has had for fifty years.

The days carry on like this, so many days pass that I begin to lose count. I wonder if I am still enough for him, enough to ease the pain of this mundane existence, enough to keep him going, for him to keep playing. His mind is not as sharp as it once was. I watch as his wonderful smile begins to struggle to hide what is looming underneath. I watch it fade altogether. I know it must be my fault.

I watch as a new neighbor moves in. A widowed woman in her sixties. I watch her garden every day. She plants flowers with a splendid variety of colors. I can’t help but marvel at them as they grow, jealous, that they have only just begun the game. He watches too. I see him watch her from his window. I see the faint essence of joy flash upon his face. I am jealous that I am not the one to blame for its return.

I watch them. A seed of friendship plants and grows, just as fast as the garden around them. My heart breaks.

I watch him spend every day in the garden with her. I watch them talk for hours. I even hear the occasional booming laugh that I have not heard in so very long. I see him fight the feelings that begin to bloom inside him. It scares him. It scares me. I can see him fighting it, out of respect for our marriage. For our life. A part of me loves him for it. A part of me feels guilty. How long does it take for respect to become a burden?

Slowly, I watch him fall in love. I have seen it only one other time, but that was a firsthand account. It is strange from the outside. I watch him slowly start to play again. I see him start to win, or at least prolong defeat.

I watch as he wakes up at five AM, not one minute before, not one minute later. I watch as he gets out of bed, this time with a slight spring in his step. Later, I watch as he opens our front door. I see her waiting on the porch. I see her warm smile.

“I think it’s time my dear, that you introduce me. I brought these…” I see marigolds in her hand, my favorite, “…you said they are her favorite.”

“Indeed, they are.” I watch his eyes well with tears.

I watch as she lays the flowers upon my grave. I listen as she tells me about herself. I listen to her mourn the partner she has also lost. I listen to the sincerity in her voice. I no longer feel jealous. I feel relief. I watch them leave me. I see him smile. I feel a weight has lifted.

I had spent all this time being jealous of a person I could not even compete with. I have already lost the game, she is still in it...and so is he. She loves him deeply, thus I am enternally grateful to her. I hope one day I can tell her that.

Perhaps, time was never the opponent, but the game itself. It doesn’t matter who wins or loses, but who you choose to play it with. Although, I did not get to play for as long as I would have liked, I sure did have a great teammate. Now, I can rest knowing he is no longer has to play alone.

Checkmate, my love.