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Aba Who Waits Anxiously at the Door

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Your report card came today, Aba said that late afternoon at the door. It’s here right in this envelope, and then as if he had just opened the mailbox and found it for the first time, he brushed his hand over it as if it were a beautiful baby boy, my proud Aba, nervous. I have never seen Aba so anxious and I had no idea how to react.

I know he will have to look it over, and gather the whole family together, all my siblings will come ready to mock my mistakes, and they will have to comment on it as if it were some sort of famous painting, because this is how we learn together as a family.

Because I’m usually the one to get good grades, Aba hasn’t gotten upset, but now it is my turn to leave an impression on my siblings like sunburn that never heals. I will have to explain why it is very important to study. I will have to tell them why I can always do so well.

Aba, his smart sayings and cynical snickers, who waits anxiously at the door, who eats red and black licorice, and is at work before we wake up, this afternoon is standing on our pale, pleasant, porch nervously.


And I think if I had made one error, just one simple error, what would he have done? I’m trying to find that reassuring grin, a sign that I have another chance. I stare at him blankly waiting for a response. I wait and wait and wait, for a single response.





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