Saturday, August 16, 2014

One year, Mrs Mesquita, our piano teacher, had a lucky dip for christmas.
We each stuck our hands into a box full of gift wrapped objects; mine turned out to be a silver bowl and the most expensive thing she had put in. I remember my disappointment, and Mrs M, grim prophet, telling my grandmother that I was a clever one, had an eye for the main chance &c. On the way home my sister sulked, and jeered at my half-sincere offer to swap. But by then the disapproving praise had already begun to seep in, the bowl was glinting with the passing streetlights through the crumpled green wrapping and plastic in my hands.
I worried for days afterwards about whether i'd deliberately done it; i recalled seeing a gleam through a small tear in some wrapping, and stretching out my hand towards it; —it wasn't fair—I wasn't good—if it wasn't luck. An instinct towards something shiny was not excuse enough. The bowl was primly shut away in a cupboard as soon as we got home, and everyone thumped me on the back with an assessing look in their eyes. I wished I'd got the sharpener. 

No comments:

Post a Comment