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Grandparents go first.
Then, after long, fruitful decades of marriage and births and pages flipping in the family record, the impossible happens, and the parents go. By then you are supposed to be older, more resigned. Maybe jaded and bitter, after politicians and solicitation and coffee have taken their toll.
And you are going to have those days when you sigh to the one laying in bed next to you, bodies colder but feelings still lukewarm, and wonder where the time has gone.
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The crux, and very often flaw, of battle plans is that everyone is human. Your plan will not always go as smoothly as you would like, or as you would think. People will abandon their tenuous “loyalties” for perhaps their loved ones, or perhaps (and more often) the clinking sack of gold. Others will let petty emotions create hesitation during the most crucial of moments. Traitors and spies are not accounted for on a chessboard. Pawns may be stronger than you think. Pieces will break the law of the board, move back when they should not, leap forward when they could not.
But above all, it is not guaranteed that every piece on the gameboard is willing to protect the king.
The graves of men who have died with thoughts to spare groan, and threaten to open. Eyes of wild, hungry beasts--the bright yellow eyes of cats with teeth stained red with blood--stare at me, unyielding, ever-evolving. I pay them no heed, and there is a tiny rustle of a breeze, then an invisible owl hoots. Crickets sing in reedy voices--and I stop before my grandfather; place the pocketwatch by a sprig of lemon-plant, and set the clock to midnight.
As I look up at the glittery carpet of a night sky, I think of when the stars might align in some divine fashion, when the gods will laugh at us in our frail, human bodies. Fire the Provider will surely cackle with glee, Water the Vanquisher will sigh and sing, and maybe plea; but it is wise old Earth who shall awaken, and cast us all into slumber.
"This was my special one," my mother says, rubbing the stuffed lamb's ears affectionately. Her eyes look tenderly upon its worn and tattered wool, and I feel her lingering in a different dimension, one of fonder memories and better times.
Staring into my mother's face, a mask of ancient laugh lines and recent wrinkles, I know only one thing. I will never understand what happy thoughts go through her mind as she gazes lovingly at the little lamb doll, or how it pulls the corner of her lip up into a faraway smile. Nor will I ever understand its value to her.
The only world I have known is one where common sense and pride reign. People scoff at nostalgia and the "good ol' times," and they abandon their families just as they do their pasts. Mother looks down at me, and something in my expression triggers unmistakable sadness in her. Why?
"I'm so sorry that you were born into a hard world," she whispers. "Your entire generation. I'm just--so sorry." She sounds on the verge of tears. Her hands clutch the lamb so tightly, I see some of the stuffing come out of its tail. "Treasure all the good moments. I don't think there will be very many."
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