Tyrannasaurus Lex
My mom's favorite pastime was competitive Scrabble. Sitting in front of a Scrabble board, my sweet mother was transformed into the most bloodthirsty competitor. I used to call her - Tyrannosaurus Lex. When visiting her, I would pretend to be interested in playing Scrabble with her, fully aware of the carnage that awaited me.
But this time, something was different. As I sat down across from her at the table, her usual gleam of anticipation seemed slightly dimmed. Her fingers, always swift and sure as they arranged her tiles, hesitated.
"Ready to lose again, dear?" she asked, a faint smile pulling at her lips. I braced myself for the onslaught.
The game started as it always did — with me trying my best to build modest words like "cat" and "dog," while she unleashed seven-letter monstrosities like "quixotic" or "zygote" without breaking a sweat. Her words stretched across the board, devouring every triple-word score like a ravenous beast.
Halfway through the game, though, I noticed something unusual: I was actually doing… okay? Her words were impressive, sure, but they weren't the usual devastating blows that wiped out half the board. I cautiously played "phantom," earning a respectable twenty-five points.
"That's a good one," she said, nodding.
I looked at her, suspicious. Compliments were not in her competitive vocabulary.
"Are you—" I hesitated. "Are you letting me win?"
Her eyes flashed with something I couldn't quite place. "Oh no, dear, you're just improving. I taught you well."
I wasn't convinced. She was holding back, and we both knew it. The board was in an unusually balanced state — no one had taken the upper hand, and we were down to our last tiles. Normally, this would be the moment when Tyrannosaurus Lex would reveal her final, devastating move. But today, she just quietly placed her last word — "rain" — for a measly 10 points.
I looked down at my own tiles. I had an opportunity. If I could just place a word on that triple-word score…
My heart pounded as I carefully arranged the letters. "Sunshine," I declared, pointing triumphantly to the board.
She glanced at it, then back at me, and smiled. "Sunshine," she repeated softly, as if the word held some secret she alone understood.
The game was over. And I had won.
For a second, I felt a rush of victory — a feeling I had never expected to experience in her presence. But it was quickly overshadowed by something else. There was a sadness in her eyes, one I hadn't noticed before.
"Good job," she said, her voice warm but distant. She began tidying up the board, placing the tiles back into the bag with uncharacteristic slowness.
"Mom… what's going on?" I asked.
She sighed, sitting back in her chair. "I've had to slow down a bit lately. Doctors think it might be early onset dementia."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "But… Scrabble? You've never slowed down with Scrabble."
She smiled, a bit sadly. "Even Tyrannosaurus Lex can't win forever."
The truth settled between us like the quiet after a storm. I realized then that this game — the one I had finally won — wasn't about winning or losing. It was about something much bigger. It was about holding onto moments, even as they slipped away. It was about sharing a small victory in a world where the losses felt so much bigger.
I reached across the table and took her hand. "Let's play again," I said, my voice steady. "And this time, no holding back."
She looked at me, her eyes softening. "You sure about that?"
"Absolutely."
And for the first time in my life, I didn't care if I won or lost.
"Ready to lose again, dear?" she asked, a faint smile pulling at her lips. I braced myself for the onslaught.
The game started as it always did — with me trying my best to build modest words like "cat" and "dog," while she unleashed seven-letter monstrosities like "quixotic" or "zygote" without breaking a sweat. Her words stretched across the board, devouring every triple-word score like a ravenous beast.
Halfway through the game, though, I noticed something unusual: I was actually doing… okay? Her words were impressive, sure, but they weren't the usual devastating blows that wiped out half the board. I cautiously played "phantom," earning a respectable twenty-five points.
"That's a good one," she said, nodding.
I looked at her, suspicious. Compliments were not in her competitive vocabulary.
"Are you—" I hesitated. "Are you letting me win?"
Her eyes flashed with something I couldn't quite place. "Oh no, dear, you're just improving. I taught you well."
I wasn't convinced. She was holding back, and we both knew it. The board was in an unusually balanced state — no one had taken the upper hand, and we were down to our last tiles. Normally, this would be the moment when Tyrannosaurus Lex would reveal her final, devastating move. But today, she just quietly placed her last word — "rain" — for a measly 10 points.
I looked down at my own tiles. I had an opportunity. If I could just place a word on that triple-word score…
My heart pounded as I carefully arranged the letters. "Sunshine," I declared, pointing triumphantly to the board.
She glanced at it, then back at me, and smiled. "Sunshine," she repeated softly, as if the word held some secret she alone understood.
The game was over. And I had won.
For a second, I felt a rush of victory — a feeling I had never expected to experience in her presence. But it was quickly overshadowed by something else. There was a sadness in her eyes, one I hadn't noticed before.
"Good job," she said, her voice warm but distant. She began tidying up the board, placing the tiles back into the bag with uncharacteristic slowness.
"Mom… what's going on?" I asked.
She sighed, sitting back in her chair. "I've had to slow down a bit lately. Doctors think it might be early onset dementia."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "But… Scrabble? You've never slowed down with Scrabble."
She smiled, a bit sadly. "Even Tyrannosaurus Lex can't win forever."
The truth settled between us like the quiet after a storm. I realized then that this game — the one I had finally won — wasn't about winning or losing. It was about something much bigger. It was about holding onto moments, even as they slipped away. It was about sharing a small victory in a world where the losses felt so much bigger.
I reached across the table and took her hand. "Let's play again," I said, my voice steady. "And this time, no holding back."
She looked at me, her eyes softening. "You sure about that?"
"Absolutely."
And for the first time in my life, I didn't care if I won or lost.
(This semi-fictional story is donated to the public domain.)
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He/Him/His
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
"We must reinvent a future free of blinders so that we can choose from real options." David Suzuki
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