Cornershot

Every other Tuesday morning, or something close to it, I make a five-minute drive to my mom’s place, and we play Scrabble.

My mom and I have been playing Scrabble together for nearly five and a half decades.

Last Tuesday I rang, and Mom cracked open her front door, still in her housecoat and kerchief.

“I overslept!” she exclaimed. “I never oversleep!” she alleged. (She’s right, you know, she does never oversleep.)

“Would you like me to come back later?” I volunteered graciously, suppressing an ungracious smile at her charming fluster. “Just call me when you’re ready.”

“Oh, no, no,” she said, grinning. “I’ll just get my coffee, my vitamins, and my granola bar, and I’ll be ready.”

And so, she was.

In the draw for first go, she drew a G, and I drew an O: “GO” (haha, Scrabble joke — you had to be there).

The final score: She won, 381 to 342.

Yeah, she was ready.

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