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would have been his. You must be proud that you brought up your nephew so well. Weary of the sound of his own voice, Uncle calls out again: Are you studying? Every utterance is colored with unconditional disappointment, and he hates himself, because he knows that rather than inspiring, these words are chastising, dissecting, murdering. Flustered, Uncle realizes he has left the water in the tea kettle too long, and he dumps it with an uncouth splash. I'm coming up! he calls as he mounts the stairs to his nephew's room, and with the swiftness of anger, he throws the door to the study chamber open. The young man is perched atop the black marble desk, a fine figurehead pose, resplendent in his white battle tunic, sword thrust outward to parry an invisible 
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opponent. And, ha! he yells, unaware of his uncle's entrance until far too late. And then with a sheepish, almost girlish grin, he sees him. Ah - Uncle . Get down from there! Uncle shouts. Get down! You ungrateful, lazy - Too late. With a deft twist and leap, the would- be warrior covers the distance between desk and window, and lands on the ledge with something less than balletic grace. Enough studying for one day, he sings. If I study one more minute, I will be as dusty and old as these books! Grabbing at air with his arms, Uncle stumbles towards the window. You come back here -  |
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