A Wounded Winner

It was Monday. Miss Patterson, the fourth grade English teacher, asked her students to write an analysis of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky poem that she had distributed.

The turnip-faced student with swirling caramel locks grinned from behind a narrow-eyed Hiroshi. 

The boy tilted forward, whispering, “Hey chopstick, does that taste good?”

Hiro understood that his classmate was referring to his left middle-finger that he absent-mindedly nibbled as he worked on his seatwork. 

A trio of boys nearby who heard what was said chortled. Two girls to the right also joined with a giggle.

Miss Patterson caught wind of the commotion. “Greg, anything funny you'd like to share with the rest of the class?” she asked with a raised brow, and a sigh.

“No, ma'am. Already shared it. Thank you.” The boy, called Greg, leaned back on his chair with one last wicked look at Hiro.

After school, Hiroshi walked out by himself, slouching with his hands rubbing the back of his elbows. His eyes darted here and there, careful not to attract any more attention as the search for the bus that'll take him home began.

His home wasn't that far, but it was oddly freezing and windy that day. He wasn't dressed thick enough for the sudden drop in temperature. 

At that moment, he yearned to be sheltered by a warm bus despite the fact that there'll be a lot of rowdy kids cramped in that can of yellow rolling tin. The alternative was a heavy coat of icy gusts of wind, and that wasn't very inviting for a stick-framed kid like him.

As Hiroshi approached his ride, Greg and his gang blocked the way to the door. “Where'd you think you're going?” the gang leader asked. 

Hiro could see disgust in the eyes of his new bully in that new school.

“To the bus... I guess,” Hiroshi croaked. His last word drifted into nothingness.

“Well, you guessed wrong. From hereon out, you're walking home. Got that chopsticks?” Greg said with a satisfied grin on his face. The group snickered.

“Yeah, we no want your sticky and smelly fingers in our bus,” the tall, black-haired, fourth grader with a crooked teeth butted in, and Greg looked as if someone outranked him in the bullying competition.

“Tommy!” Greg snapped at the boy to reel him back in line. Tommy sank into the background.

A man in a blue coat passed the boys by and hopped up the first step of the bus's ladder. “Are you guys coming...or not?” he asked with a smile. His teeth glowed yellow.

“Just us George,” Greg said with a swift pivot towards the door, pulling his boys with him.

Tommy was the last one up. Before the boy fully climbed in, he looked back at Hiro then motioned to bite his nails like they were corn in a cob. Derision was all over his smile.

Hiroshi had no choice but to walk. He tightened his backpack's shoulder strap, raised his hood, bowed his head then folded his arms to protect himself. 

At the corner of Fort Place and Monroe, Hiroshi turned posthaste right. Next thing he knew, his arm thumped against something.

“Ouch!” someone cried before toppling on the pavement. “Are you blind?!” 

Hiro pulled his hoodie down to see the boy who was picking himself up. Hiroshi withdrew his other hand from his pocket to reach out for the boy who was now on his knees, and, although Hiro's hand was still warm, he was trembling at the thought of having offended or injured someone. 

“I'm terribly sorry. My hood was up. I couldn't see what was on my side,” Hiroshi explained.

“Forgiven,” the redhead boy with wide spectacles said.

“I'm Hiroshi.” His hand extended for a handshake.

“You're the one they call 'the chopstick', right? I'm Brent.” They shook hands.

“Who... calls me what?” Hiroshi asked to confirm what he heard.

“The kids. At school. They began gossiping about this 'new' Asian kid whom Greg nicknamed as chopsticks today." Brent began while air-quoting the word "new" as if to indicate that there has been one other victimized Asian kid before.

"I guess that's you,” he concluded.

Hiroshi's eyes fell to the silver slab of concrete beneath his feet. He felt a pang of sadness, but, overall, he was unsurprised at what the school history was when it came to bullying. 

“What grade are you?”

“Same as you. Fourth,” Brent replied.

“Why aren't you in the bus?”

“The bullies said, 'Shrimps aren't supposed to ride the bus.'” Brent did a wonderful impression of Greg.

“Is that what they call you? Why?”

“I'm small, with tangerine freckles, and huge spectacles. How about you? Why'd they call you chopsticks?” Brent asked with a curious look as the two commenced walking towards east of Fort Place.

“Greg saw me biting a fingernail. And, since I'm Asian, he made a pun out of chopsticks,” Hiroshi said while showing the boy his fingers which had nails that were all straining to reach the fingertips. In addition, the surrounding skin had lesions and scabs.

“Can't deny it. Those bullies are quite clever...at giving nicknames, of course! I guess that's the only thing they're really good at. Nothing else.” Amusement was all over his face.

“I agree,” Hiroshi mirrored a smile at that remark. “So, where do you live at, Brent?”

“Not too far from here. My folks' house are at 195 St. Marks place.”

“Cool! I live just down 97. We can just walk home together after school,” Hiroshi proposed.

“I like that!” Brent said with a series of nods and sparkle in his eyes.

In a flash, the color in his face changed. “If you won't mind me asking, why do you bite your nails?” His voice trembled.

“Started when my dad left. I bite 'em when I've nothing do to, or when I'm mentally stressed. Calms me down.” Five pigeons, frightened at the approaching duo, flew away.

“So what's your plan? The bullies won't stop unless you stop that habit,” Brent said matter-of-factly. 

“Dunno know yet.” Hiroshi dropped his gaze.

“I think you should ask your mom. Moms...always know best.” The smaller boy halted in front of a brown, two-story house. “This is where we part. See ya tomorrow,” Brent waved goodbye. 

Hiro returned the gestured then resumed walking by himself. After eighteen minutes, he reached the house he was renting with his mom. He stood by the small fenced front lawn, staring at the house.

The exterior walls of the ground floor was painted a pale blue sky while the upper walls were painted like coagulated blood. He remembered his mom talking about the color as carmine to the neighbor across the street. The sweet name didn't whatsoever make it any less hideous to Hiroshi. The sight of the property revolted him. His right pointing finger and middle finger couldn't stop scratching the side of his thumb as he looked at the house.

#

Before dinner time, Hiro was at his room upstairs doing a home reading task. He had just bitten off a huge chip off his left ring fingernail, and it bled droplets over his notes. He wiped off the rosy liquid with his shirt. Doing so streaked the page with blood.

A few minutes later, his mom called him to the table. Hiroshi debated if he should tell his mom the secret.

He finally relented when he was almost done. “Mom, what should  I do to stop this?” He placed his left hand on the table.

“Oh my! What did you do?” She took his hand into hers then hurried away to the nearby bathroom.

“I bit it off...again.” Hiroshi said with his bowed head.

“Have you been doing this long?” Her voice reverberated from the distance, and she came out of the lavatory with a strip of bandage in her hand. Hiro nodded. “Since when?” she continued while mending his wound.

“Since dad left.”

“Wear this. Snap it every time you feel the urge to bite. Your once drunk Uncle Tony learned this from AA,” she said this as she removed the rubber band that had been holding her hair up in a bun.

As Hiro walked from the dining area back to his room, he kept looking at the band around his wrist. That evening, by his desk in the silence of his room, Hiro wrote a poem about his mom. Never did he need to snap his wrist as he did so.

The following day, Hiro was in the middle of another desk work. He felt an urge to bite his nails; so he tugged at the band. His face twitched as the rubber snapped back to its former shape. Greg caught sight of this.

At break time, the bullies sat on a table near Hiroshi and Brent's. Every time the two talked, the bullies would sling Hiroshi a rubber band. They'd hit him by the ears or at the back of his head.

After a couple of times, Brent stood up and said out loud, “Will you stop that, stupid Neanderthals?”

The chatter fizzled out. All eyes were upon them.

“What did you just call me?!” Greg countered with clenched teeth and eyeballs about to pop out. “Get the shrimp,” he motioned to his band of bullies. Two boys dragged Brent by the elbows. The third lifted him by the feet. By the open trash bin, they dropped him head first.

The teacher assigned to monitor the cafeteria saw the assault. His dark and oily face had the look of horror spelled all over it. When his composure returned, he yelled, "Greg!", hurrying to pull a couple of them by the collars of their shirt, dragging them in the direction of the principal's office.

As Brent's head started to rise from the bin, the yakking resumed. 

When school ended that day, the bullies were still in detention. Despite that, Hiro and Brent still chose to walk home.

“How 'bout we head to the pharmacy after school tomorrow. I bet they've some pills or creams that can end your nail-biting fits,” suggested Brent.

“That's a great idea. I bet they do.” Hiroshi's expression lightened up.

The next day, even before the school bell rang, Hiro was already packed and set to dash for the pharmacy with Brent. When it finally peeled, he picked up his bag and headed for the door. Hiro met up with Brent by the latter's locker. Together, they raced to the pharmacy like captive stallions who got their first taste of freedom.

Minutes later, they walked out of the pharmacy with heads drooping. Hiroshi kicked some pebbles that were on his way.

Brent broke the silence between them. “Since your mom's trick didn't work and science has no solution for it, how about we ask the help of a wise old man from another civilization?”

“What d'you mean?”

“I've heard there's an Ecuadorian shaman in New Jersey. They say he's so wise,” Brent said with his head held high.

“You're such a genius, aren't you?” The boy sported a wide grin.

“Oh, I know.” The friends fist pumped.

That night, Hiro wrote a poem about the pharmacist before he went to bed. He punctuated the words without a single bite off his fingers.

When Saturday came, the two sneaked out of their individual homes before the first light of day, meeting at the bus depot that services trips to New Jersey.

When they arrived at the address, the tip of a colorful makeshift tent towers over a white colonial house. Circling around to the back of the property, they got a full-view of the shelter. It was made with planks of wood bounded together with fiber ropes. Tree branches and twigs were fitted in cracks to complete the walls. The roof on top was a thick waterproof cloth stitched to the panels by heavy-duty staple wires.

An elderly male voice beckoned them from inside the tent. As soon as the cloth by the entryway closed, the space turned inky. Took their eyes some time to adjust, and without the single lit candle, they wouldn't be able to see the altar on one side of the tent where rocks, pots, leaves, candles, bottles with dark liquids, and weird animals statues sat on a wooden square table. Hiro fanned his fingers by his nose in a losing attempt to push the strong odor of burnt leaves away from him. 

Hiro deduced that the figure standing motionless at arm's length away from the altar was the shaman. The man was shirtless and wore a skirt with colorful embroideries. Dripping down his neck were several beaded necklaces and amulets.

Brent began by telling the shaman what they were there for, and the man appeared to have nodded.

The man pointed at the mat in the middle of the tent. "Sit. Closed eyes." 

Hiro obeyed. 

Brent saw the man lit an incense and began gibbering something which sounded like an incantation in his ears. Next, the medicine man dipped Hiroshi's fingers in a bowl of liquid then raised a handful of leafy vines above Hiroshi's head. In a blink, he began beating the seated boy hard with the leafy whip.

Shocked beyond agony, Hiroshi crawled like a flayed dog out of the tent with Brent grabbing him by the shoulder. Upon exit, Hiro was able to stand upright. The two ran away as fast as they could. When they were as distant as their legs could carry, they toppled on the grassy lot like bamboo poles falling willy-nilly.

When he was able to catch up with his breathing, Hiro sat up. He looked at his damp fingers. They were all dead black. His jaw dropped. “I think we got conned.”

That evening, Hiroshi strained to wash the stains off. Scrubbing with soap and alcohol didn't work nor did bleach.

Accepting failure, he dried his onyx fingers and retreated to his desk. Tears flooded down his cheeks as he penned a poem on his journal. His jet black digits left prints on the page. Much effort was put in keeping himself as quiet as possible. The shame of his mom knowing what had happened was something he'd never want to confront.

#

The next day, Hiro came to school with his hands in his pant's pockets. He was scared to let people see. He didn't raise his hands nor write anything. Miss Patterson noticed him not doing the desk work. She stood next to him and kept urging him to participate. He had no choice, but to put out his hands.

Her face was a picture of surprise and confusion.

“What happened to your fingers, Hiroshi?” she asked. The other students looked on. Greg who was partially hidden behind the teacher peeped on the side and was triumphantly snickering.

At the cafeteria, the two friends sat with no words exchanged between them. Hiroshi wouldn't dare to eat his pasta for it would show his fingers again. Brent kept staring daggers at those who looked at them with derision.

“It worked you know. I lost all urge to bite my fingers,” Hiroshi said half-jokingly and half-dismally.

“Except we're the talk of the town, again. We should try something else. You look ridiculous with those fingers,” Brent said.

“Hey, dirty chopsticks! Looks like you lost your appetite. I bet your pasta needs sprucing up,” came a voice from Hiroshi's right. It was Greg advancing with his gang. There was a small zip-top bag full of nail clippings in his hands. He opened the bag then soiled Hiro's pasta with them. After having their fun, the group left laughing and exchanging high-fives.

At sun down, the two buddies walked like defeated ghosts in the direction of Hiroshi's house. They seated themselves by the front porch.

“What are we gonna do next?” Hiroshi asked with his arms clasped, head bowed and elbows on his lap.

“Dunno man. I'm totally out of ideas. I think we just let things be.”

Their talk was interrupted by a golden van which parked in front of the next house. A man with thinning white hair sitting on a scooter alighted from the vehicle. One of his legs was crossed on top of the other, and Hiro could see it was oddly thinner than the other. 

The man's eyes were fixed on them for a few seconds then he drove straight up the house's disability ramp. The driver was a woman. She was about his age, and she followed the man moments later, balancing a couple of boxes in between two arms.

The boys continued sitting in silence for minutes then they heard music coming from the neighbor's. It was gentle on the ears like a soft velvet silk fabric floating in the air--but very depressing. They both twisted their heads to where it was coming from.

“Let's go have a look,” Brent whispered then crept towards the neighbor's house. Hiroshi was too late to reason with him not to.

Hiro was compelled to follow. 

They peeked through the fence and bushes. The man was with his violin. His eyes were shut, and his upper body danced with the notes. Hiroshi's heart palpitated as he listened. He didn't know why.

At the end of the song, the man's eyes opened and he saw them looking at him. 

The boys ducked.

“See ya on Monday,” Brent said then sprinted away.

Hiroshi decided to scuttle back home too.

#

Every afternoon since, when Hiro entered his room, sad music from the neighbor starts. Every day, a different tune was playing, but all melancholy.

Hiro hated it.

On the fifth afternoon, he just got to ask the man if he could stop playing those gloomy songs. He went to the man's house and knocked. The woman answered. 

Hiro introduced himself and so did she. She was Missus Perlman. 

The boy shared his reason for coming, and he was let in. As usual, the man was playing his sad melodies. Hiro sat by the couch and waited for the performance to end.

In minutes, the music drifted to silence and the man laid his violin on his lap, Hiroshi asked, “Sir, why do you keep playing those dreadfully lonely songs? Are you sad?”

“No, I just long for my kids, but I'm not sad. Please call me Mister Perlman instead,” the man said. “Are you sad, boy?” he retorted.

The question jerked Hiroshi by surprise. “I'm not.”

“Are you sure?” Mister Perlman pressed.

Hiroshi's brows knotted at the man's insistence. “Yes sir!” he replied sounding sorely upbeat.

“Mmm” Mister Perlman gave him a measuring look.

“What's the title of those songs?” Hiroshi inquired.

“I call them -- sad violins,” Mr. Perlman replied.

“May I ask? What happened to your children?”

“They just grew up and live far. Why do you think people become sad?” Mister Perlman asked.

“I dunno. Could be a number of ways.”

“Like what?”

“Like missing a child, missing a parent, feeling alone, or not belonging.”

“Do you feel some of those in my music?”

Hiro was stumped. “I...I just don't like them, okay?!” His voice was raised, and he regretted the rudeness. He paused and calmly said, “I'm asking you kindly, Sir.” He corrected himself, “Mister Perlman, please enough with those sad violins.” Then, he marched out of the house as quickly as he came.

Three afternoons from that day, the Perlman's home remained silent. Hiroshi sat by his desk. His journal lay open, and his pen sleeps on top of a page. 

It had been more than seven days since he last bit his fingers, but today a finger was bleeding once more. He eyed at his chipped nail and a small gash by the right ring finger. He wiped the blood off and placed an adhesive bandage over it. After, he carried his journal out on the porch and sat.

He couldn't get himself to write. He peered at his neighbor's window and a longing for the music surfaced. As he accepted this fact, a different kind of music sprang to life. It was upbeat, fun and alive.

Hiro crept as stealthily as a soldier scouting for an enemy troop towards his neighbor's window and peeked. Mister Perlman still saw him and waved him in. He accepted the invitation.

Hiro sat, looking at Mister Perlman as he waved his magical wand over the musical instrument. When the man concluded, he asked, "Why did you change your choice of music?"

“There's a cycle to life, you know? After every sadness comes happiness; however, people sometimes refuse to learn from the pain they'd been given. They think that's all they're going to get, so... they remain stuck where they are. After the pain, it's all about what we're going to do next,” Mister Perlman explained. “Now tell me, which is better: to nurture bad feelings or to use them as fuel for success?”

“I guess...the last one is better.”

“There shouldn't be any guessing. The latter's indeed the best. Embrace pain as if it's the most precious thing there is then let it drift into the wind like dandelions. The last step is to just soar,” he said.

Mister Perlman soon noticed that Hiroshi's mother had arrived. He resumed playing happy music to keep the boy from knowing. At the strike of seven, Hiro's mom came out of the house with a hand shielding her eyes from the blinding afternoon light while looking up and down the street. At that time, Mister Perlman told the boy that his mom is outside calling out for him. Hiro excused himself and skedaddled out of the neighbor's home, leaving behind his journal on the sofa. The musician smiled at his handiwork.

Mister Perlman reached for the journal and read a page. His eyes turned stone cold. He pressed two fingers by his lips, and his gaze darted around the room. 

Seconds later, his train of thoughts was derailed by his wife's call for dinner. He laid the journal on the coffee table over a newspaper. Something on it caught his attention. He slid the journal further to the side.

#

When Hiro came home at five in the afternoon the next day, Mister Perlman had been waiting for him by the porch with a familiar book cover sitting on the man's lap which the latter stretched out for him to take. Hiro felt his face and palm turn cold.

“Did you read my journal?” Hiroshi asked, trembling for the answer and the thought that Mister Perlman may have discovered something he wanted no one else to know.

“No. I didn't.”

Hiroshi couldn't tell if the man was telling the truth or not.

Mister Perlman asked, “Are you pulling a Doubting Thomas at me?"

“No, of course not!”

“Good, see you around.” Off the man went with his scooter then stopped. “...and don't come by the house in the next seven days or so. I need to focus for my upcoming performance.”

“Of course,” Hiro said then they went on their separate ways.

By his desk, Hiroshi sat and checked the last entry of his journal. There was a disk inserted in between the pages. The label had been scribbled with “To keep you company” and the name Itzhak Perlman.

A week later, Hiro was surprised to see Mister Perlman drove out of the principal's office followed by his Homeroom adviser, English teacher, and headmaster. The group shook hands.

Mister Perlman saw Hiro from the distance. The old man spun around and headed in the opposite direction. 

Hiro called out for Mister Perlman to halt.

Despite the noise of the children in the hallway, Mister Perlman's voice overpowered them all. “See you 'round, kid.”

Hiro scratched his head, looking lost amidst a hallway filled with rowdy kids. 

The following day, as Hiroshi walked out of the school building, he saw Brent by a man on a scooter. Both had their backs toward Hiro. Without any thought, he knew who was with his friend.

“Mister Perlman,” he shouted as he sped towards them. The man ruffled Brent's hair then maneuvered towards the van.

Without looking at the boy who's running, Mister Perlman waved and said, “See ya 'round, kid.“

One night, after he finished writing in his journal, Hiroshi came downstairs to get some water. He saw the front door was ajar. He came close and peeped. His mom was talking to Mister Perlman. He overheard the man say, "I'll be in touch with you soon. Bye dearie."

Hiroshi stepped out and was about to ask Mister Perlman but the man beat him to it.

“I'd already given you the best advice there is, kid. Now, what are you going to do about it?” Then, he left.

His mom stood by him and led him back to the house by the shoulders.

The next day was Hiro's first examination in that school. He felt ice-cold despite there wasn't any draft. The bullies --from time to time-- checked him out to see if he'll bite his finger. Hiroshi inspected his hands which were laid flat on top of a test paper. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and smiled.

“Loser,” coughed Greg.

“We'll see who'll be the loser,” Hiroshi thought to himself as he opened his eyes to look at Greg, smiling. The boy panicked and went back to his paper.

Minutes into the Math test, Hiro found the fifth item a tad difficult. The urge to bite came knocking. He clasped his hands, kissed them, then resumed writing.

As Hiro pressed on, item after another, all the insecurities faded away. For the first time, he appreciated himself and the life that he has.

"How was the test?" Brent began as they commenced their walk home. 

"Great! Absolutely, effing great." The two laughed. Their laughter and foolishness continued all the way through.

Even when Hiroshi was all by himself trekking the last thousand feet home, he remained glad and grateful. As he stared at their oddly-painted home, the smile was undeterred. Upon entering, he lay on the floor with arms outstretched as if in a big embrace of the house. When his mom arrived and served him a modest dinner of natto and miso soup, he bowed his head then rushed to his mom's side of the table and gave her a warm tight hug.

As Hiro ponied up on his bed waiting for sleep to come to him, he was certain he understood what Mister Perlman had taught him. He grinned one last time then switched off his bedside lamp.

#

Seven days later, the test results arrived. His teachers complimented him as they gave him his papers. Class after class, he got an A+.  He didn't need to say any word to Greg. His papers with the excellent marks on them said everything he wanted to say. Greg sneered and looked away.

When Hiro went out of the last class for the day, Brent was by the door waiting. 

"Hurry up!" The boy said.

When they exited the school's doors, Mister Perlman was in his van smiling behind the wide open hatch. The man beckoned them to come near. 

Hiro was surprised to see his mom inside.

“Come hop in,” Mister Perlman said with excitement in his eyes.

“Where are we going?” Hiroshi asked.

“Just eat these and enjoy our little adventure,” Mister Perlman handed them sandwiches.

“We heard you got a lot of excellent marks today. Mister Perlman insisted we celebrate them,” his mom said with a wink at the silver-haired man.

“You betcha!” the musician exclaimed.

After crossing several streets, intersections, and a bridge, they parked outside of the High Line Hotel. The building buzzed with life. There were two huge search lights outside. Many people in expensive clothing were coming from all directions towards the main door where a red carpet had been laid out. As they paraded in, balloons and flowers on wooden stands led to a dark and glossy wooden door with the sign Hoffman Hall.

When Hiro's group pushed through the entryway, the boy was astounded by the grand architectural design of the room. The arched ceiling was a couple of floors high. The curtains that draped from almost up the ceiling down were flaming red with golden embroidery. The center piece of the chandeliers glowed like the sun while the small accent lights around it were like stars. Fresh flowers adorned every table and all through round the edges were white and orange ceramic wares. The room smelled like fresh spring garden mixed with he aroma of warm vegetables soups that were being ferried in by the kitchen crew. 

Up front, someone ascended the stage and was awarded with a healthy supply of applause.

Hiro felt chagrined with his old dull black school shirt and faded pants as they passed tables upon tables of well-dressed people. Their group were escorted to the last vacant table at the back while Mister Perlman excused himself to sit at the fore of the venue.

Before Hiro was able to sit, the host began another introduction.

“The next award we'll give is the most significant we'll ever have for this evening. The writer's brilliance shine through...'Nail-biting', a collection of poems that can be strung together to tell an incredible journey of a boy who makes the most of the cards he'd been dealt with...with such humility and gentility,” the man said.

Hiro flicked his gaze to the stage. His heartbeat quickens. 

“The literary devices he used were very powerful which stirred some of the judges to tears. Ladies and Gentleman, the National Endowment for the Arts is proud to present this year's most worthy recipient, Mister Hiroshi Nakagawa.”

Hiro looked at his mom. 

“Go on,” she encouraged him.

“Congratulations!” the host said as Hiro came up to the podium. The balding man in sleek black tux and a genuine smile handed him a glass trophy and an envelope.

A stagehand wearing a headset added an apple box by the rostrum for Hiro to stand on. The boy mounted the crate, put the trophy aside and looked at his two hands on the rostrum's countertop. He did a once-over of the small clock by his right hand. It was seconds to seven. He shut his eyes then took soft calming breaths.

#

“Wow. I thought we're just going to grab a burger to celebrate my good marks at school.” He was sure his smile showed his bashfulness. Everyone in the room laughed.

“I was tricked into coming here. I was tricked by my new friend Mister Perlman who had my journal published without my permission. I think I can get more money tonight by suing him.” 

The laugher became thicker.

“Here's my impromptu poem to those who taught me the meaning of love,” Hiroshi said with his hands clasped on the countertop as if in prayer.

“I have scars a fawn will remember for life.

Blaming not one soldier as I battled on

Even in the darkest hour, I said, "I'll survive."

Come now, come soon, through the pain I am strong.

An enduring mother's loving fortitude, I have

Mind not my wrongdoings or lack

Even when we're penniless we never starve.

Laugh a little, laugh a lot, soon our high-spirits are back.”

Hiroshi's eyes searched for his mother at the back. Her right hand was on her chest. She raised the other hand to her face, brushing something off of it. Beside her was Brent. Then, his gaze lowered to find Mister Perlman. 

Hiro continued.

“Other friendly beasts drew near, I dint pry into

Very so unoften wonderful souls keeps me in their embrace

Endless bright fire beetle come slay darkness through

Brent's here, Brent's there. His intelligence, a sublime phrase

Comes this artist playing sad tunes to my heart's core

Only strung by none than the experienced fiddler

Zesty youth defenseless versus music that coerce her

Only his tunes, Only his advice concluded the destruction of the         finger

For as many sunrise I see, I'll hold your love firmly.

You removed my vicious crown of thorns and made it your own.

Over winds that bruises dandelions, you keep me with temerity.

Unified love, Unified souls; I believe, I've grown.”

Hiroshi stepped off the rostrum, stood in the middle and gave a low bow. The room echoed with applause. When he straightened up, he saw his teachers and classmates -- including Greg -- at the door clapping.