Autobiography no. 31

This old man at work today noticed Il Canzoniere set over to the side
and he asked if I was reading Petrarch for school, and I laughed.
Before I could stop myself I said,
"No, I don't go to college. I've got a broken heart though."
He looked moderately thoughtful for a moment,
then I counted out his change
and he got in his car and pulled away.

Autobiography no. 30

Whenever I see a chessboard,
I reflexively envision my father
as I knew him long ago,
when he was a giant and I wanted to understand him.
In those days my father and his youngest brother
kept in touch principally through the writing of letters,
each of which contained the algebraic notation of the next move
in their game of chess.
Of course the postal service works on its own time
and a game commonly ends in around forty moves,
so a year could pass
dedicated to playing a single game on dozens of pieces of paper
while they lived a thousand miles apart,
and I staring at it all enraptured, reading books about chess
and trying to guess what opening my uncle would attempt
after the current game came to an end.
Now they both have technology in their pockets
that would let them play instantly with each other from across the globe,
but I do not think they use their phones for chess,
and they no longer send the letters.
I think about this.