sesquipedalien

I hated learning my times tables. My mother would sit us at the dining table and demand the production of sheet after sheet of row after row of numbers after sequenced numbers. Like I said, it was not a fond practice. But we’d do it. And then wonder if when we were twenty whether we would still remember them.

I keep reminding him: She was right. They never leave you.

He scowls up at me and keeps filling the little lined boxes.

Math is not his strength. He finds it both interesting and boring. It’s still a chore to him.

Every evening though, like this evening, he hands his neatly done homework for our father to check. I am putting away dinner leftovers.

Ah, I see my own miniture self! My own anxious eleven year-old face trying to look non-involved, busy, but so worried. Like his today. And every day.

Father sits, his bespectacled vision glancing over the problems, his mind animated under a serene face. The face we all grew up loving, abiding, wanting to please.

“T.”

I wince.

He winces with me.

The way the name is uttered signals faults. A mistake.

A stupid one.

Father takes an envelope from the junkmail pile and turns it over.

“I don’t understand this T. Why are you making such careless mistakes? This is ~substraction.~”

I hear pencil strokes. My brother peers timidly at the envelope. Two rows of decimals. A minus sign intwixt.

“So you carry over a one.” His voice is tiny.

Father follows his intructions.

“You do 12 minus 8.”

The pencil stalls over the envelope and switches over to the homework paper.

There is a five.

“It’s supposed to be a four.” He grimaces with each word.

“See. You are so careless. How can you be so careless. It’s the little things that matter T. And it’s ok to make a mistake, but you don’t even look it over! What do you expect to get if don’t look over?”

I hang my head. For him. With him.

I watch them. My own memories washing forth. Ah my brother…

Our father is an excellent teacher. His explanations and metaphors are sometimes unbeatable. When it comes to finding and fixing faults, he is quite sharp and direct. As I grew older, I came to accept that as part of his nature. He means no harm…

But oh, the humilation that you sink into as you listen to his voice telling you of your seemingly mortifying mistakes…

The apple pie for dessert is waiting for my attention. I take it out and set it to cool. He passes by, saying something about going to bed, and waking up early.

I follow him. His head is face down on his feather pillow.

“Hey buddy!”

No response.

I sit on his mattress, tousel his hair. “Want a massage?”

No response.

I rub the back of his shirt and slowly loosen his shoulders with my thumbs. He spreads his arms out, and then tucks them under his pillow.

My sister walks in.

“Hey, doesn’t T want and pie?”

She cuddles next to him, his face hidden in the curve of her arm.

“Hey,you know, Dad used to yell at me too. And that too becasue I didn’t know two plus two.”

She lets the tips of his hair crawl against her fingers.

“Come on, it’s Dad. He did that to us too. He does it for us you know. Makes us better.”

He turns his head away and I know he’s crying.

“Don’t you want pie?” she asks, “Come on, you love pie!”

“I think T will have pie tomorrow when he comes back from school, right bro?”

He nods slightly.

“M!”

Father’s voice. Calling.

My sister hugs him once more and goes to answer.

I turn off the light and tuck him in, lying by him for a few minutes.

“So. What’s up?”

He sighs. “The ceiling. The fan. The lights.”

I chuckle. And turn his face to me. “No really? What’s up?”

“”No really. The ceiling.”

I smile. “So, do you miss me and M?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not fun living in a house of grown ups is it?”

“No.”

“Get’s lonely?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

I feel guilt wash over me. I sometimes wish I was at home more, just to be with him. School had not only given me freedom, but robbed me of some too…

“But you have soccer. And Sabha. And school.”

“Yeah.”

“Who do you hang out with at school?”

“People.”

“People? What kind of people?”

“I dunno. People.”

“Smart people or dumb people?”

I can sense his smile. “I play football with people. Some are smart. Some are dumb.”

I chuckle. He is tired. I kiss the top of his clean head.

“T, I love you.” The words sort of hang and settle. Like a feather landing after a quiet journey in a gentle breeze. It’s a rare feather. Especially in this household.

But I love this little kid. I love him almost unconditionally.

I kiss him one more time, tuck him in properly.

“Goodnight bro. JS.”

No response.

He’s already breathing deeply.