As silver linings go, the muted gunmetal gray of an NES Classic is pretty sweet. My gut told me to purchase one when it was available and I did. Also had a great $15 of sushi for lunch. Then I returned a call that shattered my dreams all over the low-pile corporate carpeting. Sigh. At least I got something valuable for my time. Even if I don’t have a TV to play it on. I’ve rigged an old computer monitor to give me video but without the classic video game music it’s not the complete sensory experience I require for a full flashback experience.

I’m replaying Legend of Zelda from pure memory. After about an hour it all came flooding back to me. I can still visualize the fold-out map that came with an issue of Nintendo Power. I remember where all the dungeons are except for one. So now I’m stuck looking for the 5th level while running around collecting heart containers and fighting strangely familiar monster dogs. This is the fruition of my childhood talents. How did my parents justify money spent on games but not horseback riding? Only one of those is even remotely practical.

* * * * *

Growing up, I wanted scuba diving lessons. Naturally, my parents vetoed that aspiration post haste. “We don’t even live near the ocean,” my dad says matter-of-factly. Turning the page of the newspaper he pulls on either page to crisp the print, a signal that he’s done talking about it. I didn’t expect a different answer. It’s just like every other thing I show a real interest in. Either it’s too expensive, too far away or my favorite reason – you wouldn’t be good at that. A miraculous prediction from people that never bothered to pursue their own passions.

Arguably, their sacrifice is what provides my opportunity. Except I know it wasn’t their choice either. I come from a long line of uptight people that don’t value artistic expression. Painting is only ladylike on teacups but needlepoint is classier (less mess). My grandparents sat in the same matching chair set with one ottoman between them for most of the years I knew them. He was a crotchety old man watching Wheel of Fortune like his existence depended on it and she did a lot of needlepoint. After Pappy died I saw her come to life in a way we took for granted.

I spent some time with my mother’s mom the year before she died. Lunch dates and shopping trips. I was old enough to drive and young enough to not have a life. She was a generous woman. The time she spent talking to me on those lunch dates might be the most heartfelt interactions I’ve had with a grown woman. I don’t remember having much to say but I know I wasn’t nervous. Sissy spoke to me like a person. I believe she saw more of who I am than any other part of my family. It was a short, sweet time after high school, just before I gave up on my dreams.

I can’t make my relationship with my grandmother more special than it is, no matter how much of it I remember. Half a dozen lunches over an 8 month period does not a deep relationship make. The big takeaway is how much of a person my grandmother was. Kind and thoughtful, I never really got to see her personality until Pappy wasn’t there to say hush anymore. Watching the six daughters interact ever since then has been so much more gratifying. The only other blood relative I felt that close to was my cousin Katie. Her observations about the family gave me so much perspective.

Not all of my ghosts are sad. It just feels that way when I’m missing someone. Overall, I’m doing homage to the few people that put their faith in me. I didn’t give enough people a chance to know me, otherwise the crowd might be larger. Over the weekend, playing classic video games, I remembered a miraculous feeling. The same one-player Mario game I played a hundred times before came with a custom commentary track. Other people lovingly cheer and jeer as they watch me tenuously navigate red brick pitfalls. When Mario winces from a fatal injury the boy next to me holds out his hand. My face forms a question mark and he says, “It’s my turn.”

I begin to giggle uncontrollably. In that moment my single player game transformed into team sport. Passing the controller between participants as each virtual life is expended I join the voices encouraging Mario to succeed until it comes back around me. Taking the helm, I resolutely guide that little Italian man through another round of peril and my frustration from previous failure is a faint memory. A soft, warm feeling stirring in my chest, I embrace an entirely new reason to play games. It’s not about finishing the level – it’s a shared struggle of friends. Death isn’t a failure, just new opportunity for someone to play.