Chess
I sit and finger the silver knight. The board is in front of me, checkered squares calling. I put him back gently. I remember when these pieces of plastic stood for my men – when each move was an issue of life or death. The boy across from me is thinking only of strategy and winning; and I know he will win because I am being too cautious. I cannot think strategy – all I can see are the bodies of my men, men I led into battle, men who trusted me, men who died under my command. My opponent takes a pawn, and I desperately try to remember that this is only a game, even as my foolish emotions bring tears to my eyes for the fallen pawn. Suddenly I hate myself for playing against a child, a boy who has not even seen death, let alone caused it. I look into his eyes, and see no hint of deeper things.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I cannot play to-day."
And I leave abruptly, trying to save my dignity even as I struggle not to cry. Am I to be forever like this, bursting into tears over a simple game? This, I am sure, is not who I am meant to be.