Of course they wanted to have fun, but it was a serious thing to play. This was back when card tables were actually used to play cards. They set them up in the kitchen. The dining room. Into the living room. They gathered in fours, my grandparents and aunts and uncles. Not a lot more than table high, I could see their hands and their “hands.” I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I liked that they had a language. That the cards dictated it. Gave them the words to speak, or even the looks that spoke for themselves. 

I think of it often. Not because I learned how to play, but because I invented my own way. I make the greeting cards, I suppose, because it gives me the language, a way to speak, even when “across the table” is across the sea. Or further yet, from heart to mind. 

I was timid at first to “lay them on the table,” – all these feelings of mine. Because it’s not really the French way. Hearts are not worn on sleeves. But I’ve worked my way in, little by little, and now it’s not a surprise any more.

She picked the card up by her plate, because of course it was for her. Not for a holiday or celebration, just a Tuesday for lunch, and a whole side of feelings. And it’s not French, and it’s not American, it’s just us. Our language. We see each other’s hands and hearts, and keep playing.