My grandfather was one.
By destiny, rather than choice.

Beautiful liquid handwriting
flowing on aligned paper
telling 423
7,854.1
15
2

He mistrusted calculators
(and radios).
Use your brain!
Flex your head!

We were
three grandkids
made to balance
tightrope-walking
over the scary line:
[ ] + [ ] – [ ] : [ ] % [ ] = ???

A whole procession
of numbers
hanging on memory.
Mnemonic gymnastics.
No paper.
No pen.
(We suffered. We obeyed).

He had dreamed of
chosen and embarked on
the mathematics
of music.
But that boat sunk.

He got stuck
in the charts
of inventory
instead.

He looked accountable
.     account  ..  count   ..  counting ..
but did not sound
nor smell
like it.

Row 1

       Section 4.3

Balance

His notebooks
were immaculate.
Perfectly bound
aligned
stamped.

I defiled a few
with teen angst
in dire calligraphy
and showy inks.

Expectant pages
neat paper corridors
occupied by ‘I wish’ ‘I could have’ ‘why’
rather than ‘I know’.

He never performed
his music.
dos, diecisiete, noventa y cuatro
But his music
performed him.

.

100,002
100,015
100,007

A beautiful
perfect
score.