White On Black

One Saturday night I went

to see a play about chess.

More musical, than play. More

hip-hop rap than musical.

Hamilton for the Cold War,

if you will. Just to be clear,

it was a play about that

American prodigy,

Bobby Fischer. The one who

took on the Russian, and won.

Match Of The Century. Cold

War embodied in black and

white. Nineteen seventy-two.

I was only four then. This

meant nothing to me. Picking

white strawberry flowers, each

a tiny star, to please my

mum. In my mind, a small black

dish to lay them upon - white

specks in a dark galaxy -

to me the image pleased, more

than I could wrestle with its

imagery. I was sure

my mum would smile, see beauty

in all I could see. White on

black. Delicate elegance.

Absorbed in my task, I sang.

Imagine then the shatter

of her scolding! What should bring

joy, misconstrued as wanton

vandalism. Is it so

hard to see small intentions

for what they are? I cowered,

sulked, stored the memory deep

within. I never made the

connection, that my white on

black offering, denied us

sweet red summer fruit. All I

knew back then was what was Now.

The future and the past had

no hold. Not like now, when both

hound me through my waking hours,

deny me sleep. I wonder -

was it the same for Bobby?

Caught in time, a champion -

genius shattered by the

frailty of his nerves. In a

blaze, he defeats Spassky, then

fades to black. Bright star. Complete.