GED

 

This was no mother-and-daughter pact. The philosophy professor questioned the auditorium: why only a few should conquer the exam? In the first row, I smothered elation, not divulging how I scribbled his utterances in toto, chanted tenets in low murmurs in library carrels, visualized the flow of his lecture, head on my pillow. You were studying from a checked-out GED manual. We sat at your kitchen table, your essay in front of me, pen in hand. This! I said. You used the semicolon properly. Not easy! You laughed, a flicker of hope kindling your step to put on more coffee. On test day, you exited the adult learning center, clawing at your purse for a cigarette, your dismissive glance at the cheap bouquet I held blooming shame.