Thursday, December 1, 2011

In which I cram my Shakespeare (and other things that make my mother question my sanity).

"Forsooth! What news doth thou bring on this morrow?"

There was a long pause and, after a puzzled silence, my mother asked, "What?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on. "I need you to talk to your brother."

I racked my brain for a suitable, Shakespearean way of responding, but could think of none. "Why?"

She explained the situation to me, one which, in brief, involved his not wanting to pursue a winter internship that would potentially open some doors for him later, once he graduated college, and ended with, "And since he won't listen to me, you should talk to him."

"Ambition should be made of sterner stuff," I agreed.

"He thinks I don't know what I'm talking about."

It was a perfect lead. "A fool thinks himself wise," I answered, "but a wise man knows himself to be a fool." Then, after a pause, I said, "Children wish mothers looked but with their eyes, mothers that children with their judgment looked. Either may be wrong."

She seemed to disregard that. "So you'll talk to him?"

"No, I will be the pattern of all patience. I will say nothing."

After a moment, my mother sighed. "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit," she warned.

I nearly clapped my hands with glee, or would have if it wouldn't meant dropping the phone. "You got it!"

"Movies or plays?"


"All right. Call me when you're finished reading Shakespeare."

I grinned. "Okay," I promised. "I only have one play left. So until then... Farewell, my mother, fare thee well!"

I could practically hear her rolling her eyes as she said her goodbyes and hung up the phone.