Games

Ryan loved games. At two he could beat me at Memory (the card matching game). By 3 Grandma determined that he was not only smart, but also insanely lucky. He drew more Sorry cards than three other players combined and reveled in their strategic use. He joined the advanced homeschool chess class at age 5 and generally beat opponents twice his age. He didn't care about winning actually.  He loved the strategy of it.  In Carrcasonne he was a spoiler because the most intricate strategies were for taking castles and meadows away from others which often did not result in ending up with the most points. He just loved the puzzle. 

Ryan learned basic math facts by tallying Monopoly properties. We covered probability formulae and thus exponents when he asked which of two game scenarios would be more likely. He'd played the game at a friend's house and I didn't know anything about it, but he was still noodling days later, so he asked Mom. He loved to figure out the best possible play - if luck gave you the ideal cards, what would be the perfect hand? 

Ryan memorized board games the way some kids memorize baseball cards or football stats. He'd spend hours laying out a new strategy game memorizing every card and every rule for unlikely scenarios. He'd play both sides and rearrange the pieces. 

He was introduced to Risk by a neighbor. When he came home he pulled out the meeples from a game we had and played out scenarios in our family atlas. His knowledge of geography was mostly the set of cities and countries named in train and war themed games. 

When we discovered board game conventions, he found his element. These were largely adult spaces. At age 10, people he didn't know worried he'd dumb down the games. Those who had played with him before assured them that the only thing to be concerned about was being beaten by a 10-year old. 

The best part for me was that playing games with him was a way for me to be with him and bring him joy. His face would light up. He'd gladly stop whatever he was doing. Sometimes he would help me with my chores so I would have more time to play with him.

We spent hours playing games together. Sometimes we played as a family, but more often just the two of us. Dad was out of town or at work. Megan had other interests. Even her substantial intelligence didn't compete well with Ryan's strategy, skill and obsessive practice. That left precious time for mother and son. 

I'd given up on chess when I went to make my third move and he said, "If you do that I'll beat you." he was 6. We played other games. At one point we owned nearly 100. 

There was the dragon game that he always won. It depended on the luck of cards coming up together with each player drawing from their own deck. I was so accustomed to his luck that it took me months to notice that his little hands weren't shuffling well.  Once I started shuffling his deck I had a better chance and we both laughed about it. 

More than any other, we played Dominion. With half a dozen expansion sets there was endless variation possible. He'd set up the cards while I finished something in the kitchen. He found a randomizer app so the iPad could select a new combination for each game. For months the boxes sat open on the floor of his room, ready for the next day's game.  I treasured the hours playing with him. There is nothing in the world better than sharing happiness with someone you love. They were among the perfect moments of my motherhood. 

Interests inevitably change. Online games took the place of board games. I offered to play with him but I wasn't any good. The greater complexity was beyond what I could pick up in an hour or two and Ryan preferred to play with his online peers. 

In the last years of his life we swapped roles. He played games as a favor to me. It was a way we could spend time together.

Normal teen moodiness covered the signs of depression that are now so clear to see: The increasingly obvious effort it took for him to sit and play with me. His new preference for shorter, less complicated games. Even so, they were some of our best times right up to the end. 

Yesterday I unpacked the board games, pared down now to a couple dozen. I wondered if I would ever play them again.  Jamie doesn't like games. Unlike Ryan, I've not been inclined to play them alone. I imagine there are players in my community, but bringing my Kleenex box to wipe at my eyes and my sniffles wouldn't be a great addition to the game. 

We've been trying to have less stuff, to get rid of the things we no longer use. Perhaps it's time to let go of these. But I can't. I can't let them go and I cry when I see them and I won't shove them away out of sight. So they sit there in one corner of our living room and I sit here in the other. Tears flow with memories. Ryan, who will never play again, will always be my favorite player. My beloved bright shining child, here with me and lost to me all at once.