In the evenings, at the dinner table, I lead the prayer. My voice always sounds distant—as if overheard from another room—and the words feel very cold and strange, the p’s and g’s tangling together until by the end, “amen” is nothing but a sound to me.
Tonight, Ian is performing a one-man act, displaying his report card as if it’s a new sports car. He’s never been a very nice boy, but the card is filled with As, Bs, quotes from teachers about the “joys” he brings. He will be a success, they say, and he reads this to us, in that way of his, his voice crisp and unflinching: “I think I’ll carry a briefcase, when I live in the city.”
“And your teachers think you’re ready for that math?”
“Yes, Ms. Mitson says that next year, I would be—”
I am no longer here. I am floating. Watching it all from above the table, imagining what it’s like to sell printers and live in an apartment and carry a briefcase and be on time for everything. My back knocks against the ceiling and finally, I am far enough away to escape that look on his face. Finally, I am free from seeing all the things no one sees but me.
I want to remind him that cities are dangerous. And that though home may be small, at least you know its edges. But I am a year older. “Behind on my milestones.” My jaw still crowded with baby teeth. I am a year older, enjoying his shadow, molding myself in the blank white space where no one expects anything from me. And so, I stop floating. I come down.
And to God, I say, please let my brother dream.