Anyway, as I rifled my way through the things we no longer need with ruthless efficiency, I came across a very ragged Scrabble box. It was rammed inside a plastic bag (bag circa 1987 by the looks of it), its insides spilling out into the once-protective-but-now-essential bag.
This was my mother’s Scrabble. It is the Scrabble board on which I learned the game. The board upon which my mother introduced me to her masterful word-play and grammatical dominance. The place where I came to understand the strategy of triple word scores and the biblical importance of the dictionary.
To me, this ridiculous shabby old box, replaceable in a heartbeat, signifies our annual camping holiday and Christmas. Each passing year would bring the same game but a fresh new set of vocabulary and higher score, until eventually I could hold my own against her magnificence.
I placed it in the charity box with a nonchalant shrug. “I really should get rid of this old thing, “ I announced to my husband. He just gave me a look and said “OK, if you want to.”
Today I have taken it out of the bag, photographed it and cried. It’s a keeper.
In some small way, this tatty old board game is the reason I am writing this today. Throw away a piece of my mother? How could I?
