The Last Move
by Erika B. Girard
I sat forward on the rickety metal chair and hesitated before my next move. Leaves rustled through the otherwise empty park as my grandfather peered at me around the meticulously-stacked Jenga blocks. I reached.
“Careful there, boy. That ain’t a good one.”
Pressing my lips together, I fingered the piece anyway.
Grandpop growled. “Son, don’t do this. I mean it.” His tone made me pause.
“Pop, it’s my turn. I can choose whatever I want.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, eyeing the wooden wedge I still hovered over. I snatched it and pulled.
The tower remained standing.
“Lucky choice,” he scoffed as I carefully placed the block at the top. I rolled my eyes.
“I’ve played this before, Grandpop. It’s not about luck. See, if you—”
“I don’t want to see.”
“All right, suit yourself. It’s your turn.”
“I ain’t got much of a choice now, do I?” His expression was sour, directed at the slightly leaning tower. “You’ve won.”
I caved. “Here, Pop. Pull that one out,” I said, pointing. He fixed me with a suspicious gaze.
“Why?”
“Just try it. Trust me.”
He scrunched up his face but complied. Nothing fell. He exhaled and positioned the block atop our pillar, which was quickly growing unstable. I leaned forward.
“See? You trusted me.”
“That’s different,” he said, his voice rising.
I glanced around before answering, jaw clenched. “I’ve worked hard for this—I can’t give up now. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not!” he exploded. The table rocked but the tower somehow stood firm between us. “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have taken the offer at all!”
Heat rose into my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was from shame or embarrassment. “I’m only moving temporarily so I can return with a steady job. I’ll write to you in the meantime.” While you’re stuck in a nursing home and I’m a world away, I mentally added.
“Don’t like writing,” he said. “Makes my arthritis flair up.”
“Have a nurse write for you, then.”
“Too personal.”
“So we’ll exchange stories when I’m back.” I shrugged. “Sound like a plan?”
“...But what if you don’t come back?”
I softened. “Trust me, Pop,” I said again. He eyed the game.
“You haven’t made your move yet.”
I smiled, knowing that it was his way of conceding. I slid out a wooden block. The whole tower swayed and then toppled in slow motion, blocks crashing to the table. Some, falling from too high a height, clattered to the ground.
Grandpop slumped back in his chair. “Jenga,” he whispered.
Erika B. Girard is currently pursuing her M.A. in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry through SNHU. She graduated from Saint Leo University in Florida in 2019 with her B.A. in English Literary Studies and a minor in Hospitality Management. Originally from Rhode Island, she derives creative inspiration from her family, friends, faith, and fascination with the human experience. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Alembic, Iris Literary Journal, Sandhill Review, Wild Roof Journal, and more.