Going down with one

My dad told me today that my grandpa forgot how to play gin rummy. Sounds silly, I suppose, but you have to understand. This is a man who lived with a deck of cards within arms reach at all times; who knew more variants on that one game than I know card games period; who sorted his cards with an ingrained muscle memory that I thought he'd never lose. When about five years ago, while sitting at the card table in Florida, he smiled and said, "Now let's see if I can remember how to play this game," we all smiled and thought, "Yeah right, the day Grandad forgets how to play gin, that'll be the day." Well, the day has come. A day when the hand-written note by a proud grandchild stating, "This is to certify that on this date, I beat Grandad in 3 hands of gin" and then signed by both parties doesn't really mean much anymore. A day when he loses something that defined him, however silly that may have seemed to outsiders. Even though he doesn't know what it means, to me he will always be the gin master.