Emalea Rooke

Jenga is one of many board games that fills the shelves in my home’s family room.

Jenga has always had me on my toes.

Joyful faces would surround me in my first games. The amateurs and the experienced players alike found a brilliant delight in waiting for the tower to fall. 

Over and over, as we played, the blocks would tumble. Cheers would erupt from those who made no mistakes, and those who lost soaked up the adrenaline of failure. All was well.

Eventually, the tumbling promised turmoil. The gleeful grin of a participant would collapse like the blocks that the player sent toppling down. The game lost its association with fun; Jenga became competitive and draining.

I watched as my childhood game became a ruthless nightmare. Winners were merciless, runner-ups were aggravating, and the silliness of a simple family game was slaughtered. All I wanted to do was giggle, but nothing was light-hearted anymore.

I tried to play Jenga on my own. I would set up the tower, take my turn, and pinch and tickle nonexistent opponents. I even teased the air, hoping for the echo of a familiar retort to follow. The room remained silent, and I was reminded of my loneliness. This youthful game, centered around family, had the company of a single four-foot-tall girl.

Defeated, I returned to the table of hate and hoarse voices, and I knocked the tower over.

A series of nights like these described the following decade. If I knocked down the tower, I was done. I lost. I was pushed aside. If I won, I was cheered on for an hour or two until someone else took my title. No one ever won twice; the game didn’t work like that. No one was patient enough for it.

Every few months, a new player would join. My youthful spirit would flutter momentarily, as my childhood naivety allowed me to be hopeful. As soon as they sat down and joined the cutthroat antics of everyone else, that hope vanished.

One night, after another game of chaos and brutality, my soul dragged along the floor, exhausted and despondent. I carried myself to bed, collapsing onto cold pillows as tears gathered on my cheeks. When did Jenga become so cruel?

I flipped around onto my back, planning to sleep away my sorrow like every other night, but the world had other plans. An unfamiliar rattle sounded from my mattress as I moved. With my interest piqued, I smeared the back of my hand across my eyes and gently stood out of bed. Kneeling, I reached my hands beneath my bed frame, searching for the now noiseless culprit. A bump sounded as I hit the edge of a box, and I pulled it out from the darkness. 

Staring up at me were five innocent letters that formed one loaded word: Jenga.

Surprisingly, a buried joy flickered in my mind. I smiled in remembrance of the happy little game. My heavy spirit lifted, and a rush of assurance enveloped me. I wrapped my arms around the precious game, silently rose from the floor, and tiptoed downstairs. 

Twenty quiet minutes passed before I found myself at the library. Loving lights and the scent of aged paper welcomed me, a feeling I had missed for quite some time. The librarian, seeing the noisy game in my hands, directed me to a private room once I came in. I sat down, an expanse of brown and cream and hushed visitors soothing my mind.

I unraveled Jenga from my sleeves and took a deep breath as I slid the packaging away, unveiling the tower that started it all. 

That night, I had prepared to play alone; however, my room quickly filled with inquisitive, abandoned souls. We all mourned the feeling of love, family, and kindness. I invited them to join, and my private room became a public space of laughter and joy that even the librarian sorely missed.

When the library closed, no one left. We embraced our variation of Jenga; we played it without suspicion, blame, or callousness, unlike everyone else. 

When drowsiness began to overwhelm our numbers, the crowd around me began to dissipate. The librarian was the last to leave. As I walked alongside her with the box in my hand, she looked at me in a way that brought me to tears.

When I returned home, the bustling noise of pitiless rivalry swallowed the quiet night. Still, I clutched my happy memory to my chest. The warmth of newfound friendship reminded me that Jenga can always be enjoyable; it just needs the right company.