When I was ten I lost a game of Yahtzee and see, I’m good at it really. Luck in its wildest sense: pearly black dots on ice-cubed enamel. “Off games,” I’d call it, when I failed to earn a tally of three. When I was three I did a lot of things like drink apple juice from pvc straws  and watch tv at seven am, plastic and soft stuffy at my lips. When I was seven I was three years from losing a game of Yahtzee. Take a blank like leaping states. Pass and pass and kiss whatever third. Oh how lucky I was when I nose-slammed the open glass door, and luckier even when a clover popped up above my grave. I leave nothing else. We are the same, lucky, losing rabbit. This roll instead of race. Take a blank, take a chance. My paper is full of shaky pen. I imagine my gold thread drawn the same. I follow my mother down the street to the house her family owned until she was fifty-five, where I sit with chocolate milk and scoresheets. My mother wins. I leave nothing. My eggs fall out and roll like dice; just roll the dice, just roll with it, I am on a roll. One day I will become something great. Fives across the board. Five fives and- If I just, keep holding out. Time builds up behind me and one day it will pick me up, aloft like the princess on seventeen queen mattresses. My pea: a single die, teetering between full house and nowhere to belong or to become.

Rayna Moxley is a second-year Creative Writing major from Gaithersburg, MD. She enjoys creating art about family and the passage of time.