Read in Spanish
It’s too complicated to explain why
I am here, sitting at this classroom
table across from Grace, who is
reading a story aloud in Spanish.
I am neither student nor teacher
in this class, and I do not know much
Spanish, but I do know Grace
and several other students in this
room, all of them fixed on the Spanish
text before them, all of them either
relieved to have read aloud already
or anxious, knowing it will soon be
their turn. But now we are listening
to Grace, feeling the low lull of her
gray sweats, relaxed by the loose
pull of her ponytail, the sweet lick
of lips, the calm of it all belied by
the rumor of a tremor in her voice,
a shyness in the face of certain Spanish
syllables, the motions of an old peace
set aquiver by some fragile, foreign
ghost. I remember as I listen to
the Spanish to ponder what the story
is about, then let it go, that kind
of knowing so beside the point, so
small beside the larger wonder
of this wavering voice of Grace.