My mother-in-law treasured words. Scrabble was her game. Precision, patience, strategy. Tiles that scored both ways or landed on a triple made some sweet satisfaction. Sometimes points weren’t the point; defensive play wins games while openings encourage neophytes and friends. When she spoke, a few words said it all. Most often she meant to be kind. An invitation, a suggestion, wise words, sometimes firm redirection, sharp, if necessary.
She held onto words until the end. She gathered them slowly. It took time to retrieve them. They balked, hidden away from memory, supplemented by smiles and nods. The sentences were short. The meaning was clear.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 