My sister is my best friend, and I hate her. I’m not feeling too warm and fuzzy about my mother, either.
Scrabble will do this to a family. So will the word “haiku,” when placed on a two-way, triple-word square left wide-open by the formerly loved matriarch who decided to play an 11-point word, opting for modest-yet-immediate gratification instead of cutthroat defensive play.
In our family, board games are a blood sport. Also, in case you’re slow on the uptake, I’m a bad loser. Watching my younger sister use “jeté” and “vase” for 44 points in the same round as “yearn” earned me 9 points made me pout.
Yes, 58-year-old women still pout. At least, this one does.
There’s no surge of pride, or a congratulatory slap on the back, watching Betsy engage in a steady stream of brilliant turns. Unless she’s on my team, her Scrabble skills do nothing but stoke my existential disgust about the world order being upended. I’m older, so I should be beating her. Why is it not thus?
As the game progressed, my prospects for winning worsened. It didn’t matter how long I stared at the seven tiles on my rack: R + R + R + L + L + N + E wasn’t going to catapult me back into the game.
Before Betsy played “haiku” she asked how it was spelled.
“H-A-I-K-U,” I said, automatically morphing into an English teacher. “Japanese poem. Three lines. Five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables.”
Betsy nodded. Then she played it on the double-triple word score.
No amount of Botox could thwart my frown. I grabbed the score pad and dashed off a haiku.
Seven tiles, one board,
Mom’s turn paves Betsy’s stealth path
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To sororicide.
Waiting for Mom to take her turn, I wrote another.
At first, it is fun
The score underscores the shift
It’s no longer fun.
After I put down “tan” for a pathetic three points, I wrote out:
Betsy is younger
Ergo she should not best me.
Now I hate Scrabble.
At this point, I effectively stopped playing. It felt like I was getting the hang of this 5-7-5 fixed form of poetry.
Small wooden game piece
Played upside down just this once.
Who? Me? Cheat? Never.
I made myself laugh. Betsy ignored me and played “dif” for 37 points. I took aim at my sister’s original move.
So “ae” is a word?
Played first, it ruins the board.
And then it got worse.
All that did was rekindle my anger. I looked down at my current tiles.
“E-I-E-I-O”
Makes a great song for children.
It stinks for Scrabble.
The game felt interminable. Mom continued to set up Betsy for triples. Betsy continued to crush us. And I kept writing poems built on loss and despair. The unhappier I became, the broader my sister’s smile … or so it seemed from where I sat pouting.
Which inspired one last haiku:
Outside, summer bugs.
Inside, she hummed. Each turn stung.
My sister, Queen Bee.
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Sally Schwartz is a freelance columnist.