This week he's hiding br under a blanket br when I come. br br I ask him, 'Do you iwanti br to have your lesson? ' br He tells me 'Yes', and so br we go into the next room, br to his music stand, and start. br br I watch his little fingers br make the chords, br trying to gain a hand-hold br over chaos. br br His memory's impressive, br though he sometimes br muffles every string br and has no sense br of when to strum. br br I think of what it is br I want to teach him, br the things that seem br so simple, now, for me. br br These concepts, br time and rhythm, br this finesse of fingers br don't come naturally. br br They must be dredged br out of a dark sea br with a net of patience. br br Sometimes he walks away br before the lesson's done, br telling me he's tired, br br and I leave feeling our effort's dead. br Next week, perhaps, his mom will say, br 'We're going to take a break...' br br I struggle through despair br those few moments weekly br I can spare for preparation, br drawing rhythm charts: br br two long lines br mark off a measure, br a short line for every strum, br chords and lyrics penciled in. br br This week, it works! br Clapping out the 44, br then the 34 time, br I finally iheari the songs br he's worked so long on. br br He doesn't, but he will. br Life has come from the dead br impasse. The air in my lungs br is vast and fresh now, br like the sky that greets me br when I get outside. br br I feel as though I've tutored Alexander br for his conquest of the world.