Every summer, dada and I would play Scrabble religiously until we exhausted all of the words from our word bank.
After my dada’s passing, I never played a game of Scrabble again. The game became a bittersweet memory, and a forgotten pastime.
Yesterday, I somehow mustered the courage to open the contents of the vintage board game. I didn’t know what to expect, or whether I’d be able to play without getting too emotional.
But after I landed my first triple letter score, everything fell into place. It was almost as if my dada was sitting right across from me, cheering me on from the sidelines, and making some witty remarks as he tallied up the rest of the points.
Over the years, the box has traveled from the garage, to the patio, to the dining table, and the attic. It has never failed to charm our friends and family, despite its share of coffee stains, missing block letters and layers upon layer of scotch tape wrapped around the edges of the maroon box.
I’m happy to say that this box will always have a special place in our home. It’s a reminder of my grandfather’s beautiful legacy and his love for words.