Rummikub

I threw away my Rummikub set this morning, heard the garbage truck backing into the parking lot at six a.m., then the sound of the lifted bin high in the air. Has a part of me gone with it? It was missing the yellow twelve and a joker. The red nine was glued together, leaving a squiggle down the front. I would always take that piece first. 

Shabbos I cut my finger from an exposed staple from the inside lining of the case. The green felt dividers were broken and thrown away. You didn't need to make neat stacks of five tiles anymore. You just threw all the tiles back into the peeled blue leather case. Everybody had to play using one plastic foot to hold up their boards. It worked, you just needed to be careful. 

I have had this Rummikub game since I was ten. Every year I could choose a present from the organization that we belonged to. We went to the Christmas parties to get our gifts. I must've played Rummikub with my mother a million times. She taught me that you needed fifty-two points to put out your hand. A one could be placed after a thirteen. 

I always had to beat her at the game. When it was my turn, I would rearrange the board in every way, to test how I could get rid of my tiles. Sometimes, I wouldn’t play out my hand until the very end; playing out my entire hand on my first winning turn. She watched me carefully. She would say, “It’s not about winning the game, it's about having fun.”

Not for me. It was only about winning the game.