The First Move and the Last: Remembering Uncle Leonard

There is a specific kind of silence that fills a room when you receive tragic news from thousands of miles away. It’s a heavy, suffocating silence that seems to amplify the hum of the air conditioning here in my room in Dubai, making the distance from home feel not just like a measurement of kilometers, but of worlds.

Yesterday, that silence hit me hard. I received the news that my Uncle Leonard has passed away.

Being an OFW (Overseas Filipino Worker) comes with its own set of sacrifices, but the hardest one is always this: being physically absent when the people you love leave this earth. You feel the grief, but you can’t touch the reality of it. You are left with memories, chats, and the sudden, sharp realization that a pillar of your personal history is gone.

The Gift That Started It All

To understand why this hurts, you have to understand who Uncle Leonard was to me, and specifically, what happened nearly five decades ago.

When I was a boy, I didn’t just like chess; I was obsessed with it. I dreamed in black and white squares. But growing up, we didn’t always have the means for luxuries. Then came my 11th birthday.

I remember the moment vividly. Uncle Leonard handed me a package. It was heavy, solid. When I tore the paper away, there it was: my very first chessboard. It wasn’t just a collection of wood and carved pieces to me; it was a validation. It was him saying, “I see you. I see what you love, and I want to support that.”

That day, he didn’t just give me a toy. He gave me a profound moment that fueled a lifelong passion. He made the first move in a game that has lasted my entire life.

A 50-Year Journey (Almost)

What makes this even more surreal for me today is that I am thinking of that very same chessboard right now.

It has been almost 50 years since that birthday. Think about that for a second. In a world where we replace phones every two years and clothes every season, this wooden board has stayed with me. It has survived house moves, life changes, and my journey across the ocean to Dubai. It is, without a doubt, one of my most treasured possessions—treasured above almost anything else I own.

Every scratch on the surface tells a story. Every piece holds a memory. For half a century, it has been a constant, tangible link to my childhood and, more importantly, a direct line to Uncle Leonard. It’s strange to think that the object remains so sturdy and present, while the man who gave it to me has faded away.

The Bittersweet Goodbye

The grief is compounded by how fresh his presence still feels. I was just back home four months ago. It was a dark time for our family—we were burying my mother.

Uncle Leonard was there. We spoke and we shared the heavy burden of losing nanay. Looking back now, that memory feels incredibly fragile and bittersweet. We were mourning one loss, unaware that the clock was ticking down on another.

I didn’t know that our conversation at nanay’s funeral would be the last time I’d hear his voice in person. I didn’t know that while I was saying goodbye to her, I was effectively saying goodbye to him, too. It’s a harsh reminder of how unpredictable life is, and how important those fleeting moments of connection are.

Checkmate

So, here I am in the desert, far from the wake and the family gathering that is surely happening back home. I can’t be there to shake hands or share stories in the living room. But I have this memory of the chessboard.

Tonight, I think I’ll set up the pieces on my mind. I’ll sit before this gift he gave me when I was just an 11-year-old boy with big dreams. I will run my hand over the wood that has traveled 50 years to be here with me, and I will remember him.

Rest in peace, Uncle Leonard. Thank you for the game, thank you for the gift, and thank you for being a part of my life. You’ve made your final move, and you played a beautiful game.

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Marl Ben

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