A King's Gambit

In the opening, he sets the stage,
Controlling the board,
Not just a warrior in battle,
But a grandmaster in life’s chess.
I’m his little girl,
Believing he could checkmate anyone.

I’ve watched him obliterate foes,
Like pawns falling on a mental board,
He is deathly
Like a rook on the open file.

I envied his certainty,
How he read people,
Predicting moves and decisions,
Even the weather—
Like the time I trusted a sunny forecast,
No umbrella, came home drenched,
He scolded me while drying my hair.

But yesterday, he opened up about
Feeling powerless when his father died.
Surprising, for two who played in black and white,
Always arguing, always fighting,
And in those final games, he was winning.

“I had no one to look up to after his passing,” he said,
“No one to best in arguments,
No one to gloat to.
Now I just look up to the sky.”
And I realised
That’s why he knows when it will rain—
Always watching the clouds.

And on a clear day, he sets the table outside,
This time I play his white, and he plays grandpa’s black,
And sometimes I wonder, do I play his past moves?
Does he see the young him staring at him across the board?
Will he see his own dreams mirrored in my play,
As we navigate the game of life, together yet apart?
Two figures on a chessboard,
Each with a guarded heart,
Bound by a silent struggle,
Yet rivals by design.