Dominoes Make You Rich

In a Spanish-style house in Miami, the air hums with the rhythmic clatter of dominoes. It’s a sacred room where old stories are told in the language of tiles and where I sit, a young woman, beside my grandfather. His hands, weathered by the salt and sun over the years, move with a precision that transcends skill—they embody generations. 

The first domino is placed with a decisive clack. It’s a sound I’ve known all my life, a simple, resonant note that echoes with Caribbean flair. Each domino that follows falls into place with a satisfying rhythm. We play in silence, the kind that alludes to something bigger. Each tile clicked onto the table is a small testament to a lifetime of shared moments. I watch him and notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles and taps his fingers against the table as if composing a melody only he can hear. 

My grandfather’s stories often come unspoken, conveyed through the movements of his hands and satisfied nods. His wisdom is a quiet force rooted in history that traveled from the streets of Havana to the heart of Miami. I see the things he has bravely faced in the way he plays– revolution and celebration, love and loss, all seasoned with the same passion that flavors our game. I see it all in the subtle, confident flicks of his fingers as he places each tile. I do my best to absorb every essence of a life lived fully.  

As I find myself out of luck with the dominos, I knock on the table and look at my grandfather; his gaze is steady, and his smile is knowing. I see the reflection of my gratitude in his eyes- a recognition of the life we share and the lessons he imparts. Each game, win or lose, I am once again reminded that I have never played this game alone. It is so much more than entertainment; amidst the dominoes and laughter of family, there is a bridge between then and now —a link to a heritage that is both cherished and enduring.

It’s in the gentle clatter of dominoes that I am embraced by both the past and present. These moments will always carry me. As we clear the table, I pick up a domino and trace my thumb over its grooves before putting it away with the others; it is such a simple thing- a mere game piece. I drop the domino in its case; the sublime tune of their clattering fills my ears once again, and I realize the dreams that have once danced to this tune. These dreams, etched in the clinking of dominoes, are mine, though they belonged to someone before me. I slide the lid onto the naked wooden box as my grandfather’s hands trap mine with his. Our eyes meet with profound familiarity, and I finally understand the wealth of my life.