Because
Mr . Barnett for Afton
I ’ ve always been better at word games ; because my sister has always been better at mancala , her hand a shifty , surly , scooping sidewinder dipping into the pock-marked mahogany between us at twelve and ten apiece , her hand a constant passing back and forth around the board , my hand shaped better for pen and paper ; because picking up pieces means knowing where to place them ; because we are pieces of the people who came before us ; because ancestry is more Plinko than PAC-MAN , yet this redistribution she is so good at — like something in the blood — has made mine boil watching her snatch away every last glob of glass into the end pit , and I ’ ve marveled at how easy it is for her to get there ; because it takes so much movement to wind up where you ’ re headed ; because mancala means movement ; because she ’ d drop her last stone in her store and say Eat your heart out and I ’ d try in vain to prove her wrong and always sow too short and fill the remaining spaces with words I wasn ’ t proud of ; because every game is still a word game to me , and I could give the definition of countenance or easily spell nauseous correctly on command , but I couldn ’ t seem to count my moves correctly , and isn ’ t this what family is for ? Wasn ’ t our blood picked up and dropped here , moved all around this continent just to arrive where we are ? What ’ s the word for that ? I ’ m asking because at twenty-eight , in the evening of my youth , I ’ m only just learning that words aren ’ t everything ; because even though these childhood games are still fresh in my head , I still wish for my sister to pick us up like little pieces of glass
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