I categorically dislike games whether they’re ‘bored’ games or ‘sloth’ machines. When my new cellphone arrives preloaded with games, I find the presumption annoying.

Years ago, the women in my new neighborhood asked me to play Bridge or Five Hundred or one of those card games everyone but me plays.

Declining that offer set the tone for the next 14 years. I was not invited to anything else by anyone else on my street.

I told them I had trouble sitting for that long, never fully explaining I have trouble sitting for that long to play cards! Sure, I’ve played Old Maid a few times, but the little children remind me how it goes. Maybe I’ll develop a liking for Bingo as I age, but right now it’s ‘Bingone’ to me. Money gone, time gone, and dauber ink all over my hands.

Games have been elevated to the level of preventative medicine. Everywhere I turn, someone completes another study proving how the only way to avoid Alzheimer’s is to play games. Case in point: Sudoku. Defined as a “logic-based combinatorial number-placement puzzle where the player makes sure each row, column, and region or block of squares contains each digit exactly one time.” The Japanese word translates as ‘single number,’ but it sounds like a trip to the dentist to me! What if it’s a plot by which we are so distracted putting one digit into each cell, box, block, or sub-square that we fail to see the enemy approach. I’m not taking the chance.

I do exercise my brain and I am definitely in the game. Once I begin to do any number of things, thoughts of a particular person come to mind. I don’t mean parents and all the things they taught me or how holding a gift reminds me of the giver. I’m talking about that very specific and random thing that always makes me think of a certain person. For example: When I swab my ears (ever so gently) with a Q-tip, I think of Art, who texted his wife to hurry home and drive him to the ER as the tip of the Q had disappeared into his ear canal. If I peruse the Black Friday ads, I think of Lucy who smartly sidesteps the fray, staying home to write her Christmas cards. As I write an uppercase cursive M and drop below the line to finish it with a flourish, I recall my cousin Martha first showing me how. We were third graders playing School in the basement.

My game will be different than anyone else’s because the people in my head are different and my interactions with them are mine alone. My mind goes into gaming mode at the oddest times. I can’t sit down and decide to play this game—the associations come to mind when they come—brought on by what I’m doing.

May I continue? If I am coming up the stairs in a long robe, I remember Mrs. LaPlace who tripped on hers, broke a rib, and punctured a lung. I lift the robe and pay attention to my steps. Every summer Mrs. Mock joins me in the laundry room as she admonishes how important it is to ‘keep up with the beach towels’ so they don’t grow mildew. As a child I watched Mrs. Bender use tape to remove sticky store tags at the Horne’s Gift Wrap department and I picture her whenever I need to do the same. When I’m eating alone, I am kept company by Ashear—a longtime friend who cannot begin eating until her reading material is in place. I line mine up next to the plate and only then do I sit down. As soon as I hear particularly beautiful instrumental music, I’m reminded of Rob, who with his advanced degrees in percussion, introduced me to Cyrus Chestnut and the most gorgeous jazz. If it’s warm on Palm Sunday, I hearken back to Mrs. DeLallo’s theory: ‘Go ahead and wear your new Easter outfit—it could be freezing next Sunday!’ Setting the clothes dryer, I am guided by my neighbor in Arizona. Theresa, an expert seamstress from Germany used to say: No matter how long it takes, keep the temperature on Medium or Low; High will ruin the fabric. My cousin Renee pops in to make sure I fish the bras from the wet load and hang them on the clothesline—preserving their shape and mine!

On stormy days, Fr. Dave flashes his big smile and quips: “We have to make our own sunshine today!” As I reach for the large slippery shampoo bottle in the shower, Patti Pie comes to mind. She dropped the institutional size onto her foot- later requiring surgery! If I hurriedly add paper to the copier, Mr. Bell slows me down to fan the paper first. He worked in a paper mill and when I ignore his advice, the thing usually jams.

As I pull on the increasingly tighter jeans, I think of Pat Q’s statement that you should avoid elastic waistbands. Otherwise, you’ll get sloppy because there’s nothing to remind you that you’re eating too much! As for socks, my husband’s Aunt Ida is in my head reminding me to pull out the toe first, because tight socks are as bad for your feet as tight shoes.

This mind game must be good for knocking out cobwebs and while my nerve impulses jump across the gaps upstairs, I’m fondly thinking of all the folks whose experiences continue to inform my thoughts. I may not be a gamer but make no mistake—I’m a gamechanger!

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.