The scene on the television was a father sitting down to teach his teenage daughter how to play poker.
I could feel the sadness in my chest build and the tears begin to flow down my cheeks. The poker face I couldn’t keep.
I, myself, will never play poker with my Dad again.
It’s one of those moments of grief.
I look over at the table next to the comfy chair I am in and his picture is displayed in a frame. The frame nothing fancy, in fact it was on clearance years ago. Yet reflects a smiling man and the suits of playing cards along with words associated with poker. It was his favorite game and the frame fits him perfectly.
The scene on the television fades but not the feelings in me. The words “I will never play poker with my Dad again” continue to play in my mind. It’s one of those evenings I’m home alone and feel the loss of someone I loved deeply. Probably not the best thing.
I find my way to my dresser drawer where lies one of the precious things I took of my Dad’s. A deck of cards. The paper case worn, the cards used. But the comfort of knowing that his hands, (one of my favorite things about him), touched this very item, brings me solace.
Not too far from a year and half ago he passed away. I’ve only looked at these cards a couple of times. My siblings and I enjoyed playing poker in his honor with them after he passed away. I thought it only fitting to use them and real money that night. I haven’t played poker since.
Growing up my older siblings tell me Dad would pay them for their good grades then play poker with them. Of course real money was required to play with my Dad. He was a very good player, perhaps not the best parent, but a good poker player none the less.
As I write this last paragraph, a smile comes across my face, it brings me some joy in a time of sorrow. Remembering him in this way. I have written before, I shall not stay in the darkness for long, but the darkness I need to be for now. I am not really alone in it, my Father is with me. God the Father that is.
Grace is a gift,