Keeping Score

“After you,” you say, handing me the deck. “Be sure to shuffle them well.” Cautiously, I split the cards then release them from my thumbs and watch them riffle together, careful not to send one flying off the tiny tray table hanging from the seat in front of me. Dealing, I count out seven apiece before arranging the remaining cards in a pile, just so. 

Each time I do this, memories flood in. Flights to Amsterdam and Buenos Aires, Montevideo and Málaga, Santoríni and Zürich, and countless more; excursions by bus and boat and train from Prague to Munich, from Stockholm to Helsinki, from one tiny Italian town to the next—always with the cards, our faithful travel companions. “Good luck,” I say, turning to you, equal parts sincerity and sarcasm, not unlike our everyday banter.  

How did I get so lucky? I wonder, shifting in my claustrophobic seat and twisting my hand so you can’t peek at my cards. If I’d never endured the terrible divorce that tore my family to bits, I’d never have met you, my best friend, my soulmate. Judiciously selecting my final discard, I grin. Keeping score is my job. Laughter now, as I make another tally in my column while you groan, “You cheated!” Maybe sometime I’ll win a hand and you’ll admit I played my cards better than you did. Not likely, though.  

One day, I’ll look back on these trips and wish we could relive them together. Possibly there are many more ahead of us, but at our age we can never be sure. Questioning the future is second nature for me after so many decades of loss and uncertainty. Regardless, I’ll always be grateful for this life we’ve made. 

Shuffling is your task this time around. This is my happy place, I think, watching you fold the cards together much like we’ve blended our own lives these twenty-four years and counting, wishing we could cruise along through fresh terrain forever, just the two of us. Until we land in a new destination or back at home, remembering that the full house of life with family and friends—old and new—is a big part of what makes it all worthwhile.  

Virtually no amount of keeping score makes sense for us, except in cards. When life is quiet again, the deck packed away and suitcases stored, we’ll scroll through travel photos, remembering the funny stories, the close calls, and the life that always calls us home.  

Xylography—the art of carving images into a wooden block in reverse to press onto paper and create a print—couldn’t begin to match the beauty imprinted on our hearts by scores of days and weeks and months spent exploring the world. You in the seat beside me, you a few steps ahead on the sidewalk, you lagging behind to buy “just one more lottery ticket,” and me rolling my eyes, then laughing, knowing how lucky we’ve been. 

Zero chance we’ll lose, because we’ve already won. 

Casey Mulligan Walsh has written for The New York Times, HuffPost, Next Avenue, Modern Loss, Hippocampus Magazine, Barren Magazine, and numerous other literary magazines. Her essay “Still,” published in Split Lip Magazine, was nominated for the Best of the Net series. Her award-winning memoir, The Full Catastrophe: All I Ever Wanted, Everything I Feared, was released by Motina Books in February 2025. Casey also serves on the board of the Family Heart Foundation. She lives in upstate New York with her husband, Kevin, and too many books to count. Learn more at caseymulliganwalsh.com.

This essay is a Short Reads original.