At the dinner table, I lead the prayer. My voice 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.
My brother breaks the spell, showing off his report card. He’s never been a very nice boy, but the cards are filled with As, Bs and quotes from teachers about the joys and pleasures he brings. He will be a success, they say, and he reads it all, in that way of his, his voice crisp and unflinching—”I think I’ll carry a briefcase,” he adds, “When I live in the city.”
“And your teachers think you’re ready for that math?”
“Yes, Ms. Milton says that next year, I’d 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 pushes 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 while 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.