Crosswords

‘A, something, something, R, something, 

M, something, C, something, something’

Mum poises her pen over the crossword.

‘Hector’s wife.’ She knows I like the Greek mythology ones.

‘Andromache’. I answer, eager and smug.

She nods at my matrilineal predisposition for being right, 

ignoring that I pronounced it ‘Andromash’.

I can smell coffee and cinnamon scones,

I might have homework.

Mum passes the paper to me

and this is how it goes, the back and forth –

a quiet, electrified tennis match across the kitchen table.

I smile at a clue to break her winning streak…

… She answers correctly (‘truculent’, apparently). One left.

Mum looks down, pauses, looks back up. I do the same. 

We nod.

‘Let’s Google that one.’ 

She types, scrolls, scoffs,

‘What loser is gonna know that?’

Mum could finish the puzzle herself

if she wanted to.

I could not. 

I have tried and tried and each time 

a crumpled up newspaper finds itself 

on the other side of the room.

(5 down, 7 letters, large flatfish)

‘H**i**t’

(19 across, 9 letters, infatuation or obsession with another person)

‘*i**r*n**’

(2 down, 9 letters, drowsy, lethargic)

‘S**n**e**’

All unanswered, leaving behind an aggressive dissatisfaction.

Great, empty squares daring me to admit defeat.

I do not yet possess Mum’s total being-rightness, 

her sharp and omniscient knowing.

In some dystopia, my house 

will have unfinished crosswords for kindling.

Unfinished crosswords inside my walls, on my plate,

Under the floor, bursting through the ceiling.

I’s and R’s and A’s and M’s and E’s

With nothing in between.

No one to ask me

the Greek mythology ones.

No one to nod,

telling me I have the right answer.

For now, though, Mum and I wait

until tomorrow’s crossword.

We say we will time ourselves,

we won’t.