Yahtzee - The Dice Now Rest

No More Yahtzee The dice rest now, entombed in their velvet crypt, their edges worn smooth from countless tumbles across the battlefield of the table.

No longer will they dance to the music of your hands, their clatter swallowed whole by the unyielding silence of absence. Your final game is over, its last roll vanishing into the shadows of time, lost somewhere between a simple afternoon and the unbearable end.

No more Yahtzee calls— that jubilant cry that stripped away the years, leaving you young, light, alive. No more teasing disputes, no crooked scorecards scribbled with your hurried hand, the numbers as untamed as you, refusing to stand still.

I see you still, fingers wrapped around the dice, shaking them like a conjurer pulling miracles from air. You always said there was a secret— a pulse, a rhythm only you could hear. But now the dice are mute, their magic shattered, their rhythm silenced in your absence. The table aches with stillness, its silence sharp enough to cut.

No tumbling dice, no groans for missed chances, no laughter spilling over like an unexpected gift from a game you didn’t need to win. The Yahtzee box sleeps beneath dust, its corners fraying like a memory. But it holds more than dice and rules— it holds the echo of your presence, the weight of evenings stitched together by chance, the quiet, steady language of love spoken in scores and throws.

And Mom? She doesn’t touch the dice anymore. It would feel like breaking a spell, like borrowing a melody that only belonged to you. Some games end forever when the soul who played them is gone.