In the midst of where the backs of a dozen houses face each other, there is a flat spot. Last summer, a group of young men built a patio. They placed stone tables on the patio inlaid with chessboards. This is the Courtyard. The Courtyard feels what courtyards feel. The neighbors walk through and touch the tables. Except on Tuesday nights.
Every Tuesday, kings fall—one by one.
The sun rose. The tables stashed the warmth for later. The edge of the patio shivered while the dew retreated. A child left a light impression as he walked between the tables. He chased his ball, and a puppy chased him. The barking was fast.
The players brought their men. The player with the cane scraped his left heel on the stones. The woman with pointed heels got stuck between the stones. Everyone took their places. They set up their men and waged war. Few words echoed between the trees.
Snow settled on the patio. It covered the chessboards. It lay there for its season while a child made snow angels on cold afternoons.
Warm. Cold. Warm. Cold. The cycles passed.
Warm. The players came to the tables. The stones missed the scraping heel. A chair remained empty. The sun warmed the tables. Few words flew between the trees.
Cold. Warm. Cold.
Warm. The players left their homes. They brought their men. Along the paths, their feet shuffled. The woman with heels wore slippers. They caressed the stones. A table sat empty. Both chairs were the same weight.
The Courtyard felt the weight of snow come and go. Cycles passed. Fewer people weighed down the chairs.
Warm. One table. All of the chairs were the same weight. Except one. He moved all of the men. He watched them. He pushed them onto the stones and lay his head on his folded arms.
The generals’ men lie in boxes which lie in houses. All of the chairs are empty.
Warm. Cold. Warm. Cold. Warm. Cold.
The Tuesday generals have not returned.
Warm. Cold. Warm. Cold.
Warm. Tuesday. A woman sat at the table. Alone, she worked on a crossword puzzle. Two boys came out. The elder set down the men for the game. They’re all the same size.
“It’s called checkers.”
And war returned to the tables.
