As we ate,
I felt proud that I had managed to stop thinking about the women.
Then I had to tell myself to be careful, lest my ego swell instead.
Finally, I told myself to relax. Which I did. The food,
the crackling fireplace, and the medieval trumpet and recorder
music reminded me of something distant, intangible, and noble.
My spirit soared.
"The kid and I are going to write some songs for you,"
Atmananda announced.
I looked at him, perplexed. After all, I was no longer "the baby"
but "the kid."
He motioned for me to follow him upstairs.
I immediately assumed that my brother would be right beside me when I
climbed those stairs: him first and then me. But he just sat there,
boosting my confidence with a faraway smile.
I nearly told Atmananda to write the song with my brother.
Instead, I chose instead to go with the flow. I climbed.
"If you are going to study English," Atmananda told me, "you might as
well get used to putting together words." He grinned mischievously.
"Let's write songs about Sal."
At first, he was the driving force behind the creative process;
I merely smiled at each of his ideas. Later, though, I came
up with a few lines of my own, which seemed to blend with his,
and after about forty-five minutes we marched triumphantly downstairs
and sang together.
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