Cribbage

Wednesday was her cribbage night,

one of the few things she actually remembered,

that and Thursday lunch with Van,

the important days at 88, worth remembering.

Cribbage Wednesday, then, was a day unplanned,

kept open, to clean and ready herself for the “boys,”

three younger men who came for a night of cards,

15-2, 15-4, and a run of 3 for 7, plus the crib.

Their hob-nail pegs move around the score board’s

parallel holes, up one side and down the other,

tallying up their points in a race to the finish,

the kitty but a couple dollars won at the night’s end;

this is a cutthroat game, serious cribbage, bragging rights.

Weekly, faithfully they come, mostly, bearing snacks,

too many, and wine, not enough, and for an occasional treat,

she’d bake them cookies, crisp and slightly burned,

“the way they like them,” or so she’d claim;

nobody ever complained, just ate them anyway.

Lately, though, she’s slowed down, less sharp, the cards

not adding up as quickly for her as in her past;

nobody cared, nor paid much attention to a card

missed without notice, a tally slightly off.

And so the weeks persisted, Wednesday nights,

two teams of two, or the rare night of missing players,

conflicts or weather keeping some away, one on one,

her against whoever showed up, Gary or Ed or Tom,

a well-worn deck of cards and a cribbage board,

two parallel rows up one side and down the other,

racing, like time passing toward it’s end: time remembered.