Mah Jongg

When I was growing up
One night a week was set aside;
If mom was needed, well – too bad!
She was preoccupied.

She left for someone’s house or else
To our home her friends came;
The purpose was the females-only
Holy mah jongg game.

A bridge table was set for four,
Refreshments were prepared;
And if an atom bomb dropped
No one would have even cared.

The ivory tiles were stacked in rows,
The mah jongg cards consulted,
And lots of kibitzing ensued;
Hilarity resulted.

I’d listen from a nearby room
When my mom was the host.
The clack of tiles and laughter
Is what I remember most.

I’d sometimes steal a perfect piece
Of pineapple with cherry,
Or grab a bridge-mix handful
From the nosh itinerary.

But mostly I ignored them,
Said hello and grabbed my snacks;
I knew I’d never spend my time
With bams and dots and craks.

Yet years have passed and who’d have guessed
That I, with several others,
Play mah jongg in our living rooms,
Exactly like our mothers.

We build our walls and share our food,
And sing each other’s praises;
The circle has been made complete,
And that is what amazes.

We never think, when we are young,
Our parents’ lives expressed
So many things that we’d someday
Be happy we possessed.

The beauty of that knowledge
Is despite life’s barbs and knots,
We can schmooze with friends just like our moms,
With bams and craks and dots.