dear sister.
We were all supposed to come up with a talent. For the Grade Six Talent-Show. Something to perform on stage. Mrs Breuk, our arts teacher, said, “I’m sure you all will think of a nice act to put on that we shall enjoy.”
“By Friday,” she added.
Friday came and I was sitting between Avery and Yael in class, their talents were the trombone and a routine of card tricks. When Mrs Breuk asked me for mine, I said I had no talent.
* * *
Later that night, my mom said, “Sure you have a talent, honey.”
“Okay,” I said, “What?”
She raised her eyebrows, and looked at my dad, he was on his second beer.
He said, “You love climbing trees, don’t you?”
I didn’t, but I said, “You want me to bring a tree on stage and go up into it?”
He laughed a phoney laugh, took a sip from his can and looked at my mom.
She said, “You love books, honey, right?”
She was not very sure, her words echoed across the living room, rebounded from the bare wall across and shattered into tiny pieces.
I said, “Shall I go on stage and read a book? I can do that.”
They giggled in unison, but never shared a look.
* * *
This was 1980, a very cold February, the radiator in my room was failing, my window froze up overnight. Not all nights, but quite often. That winter I was exchanging notes, in class, with Esther Friedman, on a regular basis. She was very popular. I thought that we were dating — she must’ve taken me for a creep. Her talent was ballet, her father had once danced in Europe, she didn’t remember where, though. After Friday Mrs Breuk never asked me again about my talent, nor did my parents. And I never got to see the show — my father picked me up right after school that afternoon and drove me to my aunt, who was bedridden. If I’m not mistaken, Esther did well in the show.
