Math

All these years have passed
and I still have
the same repetitive dream.

I am in college.
It’s the end of semester
and I realize
there is a math class,
calculus, trigonometry,
a hard one, of course,
that I completely forgot
until this moment.

Panicked,
I riffle through my backpack,
looking for a schedule.
Papers fly everywhere.
No clue.

When I eventually arrive,
a stern, middle aged
male professor
is passing out final exams.
I sit, doomed,
and try to make sense
of what I never learned.
Heads bent in concentration,
the students around me
work diligently.

Why, though?
I am in my sixties
and still have this dream
at least twice a year.

Fear-
of failure,
of not being smart enough,
of not working hard enough,
of making terrible mistakes,
of disapproval,
of not being able
to hold it all together.
Who knows.

This time, though,
the very serious professor
is handing back
graded exams.
Great. Even worse.

He gives me mine,
folded in half,
and stands, arms crossed,
while I open it.
Red marks cover the page,
but wait-
here’s the grade.

“A for effort, “ he’s written.
For showing up
at the end of every semester,
humiliated and panicked,
with no chance of success,
for over forty years.

I look up
and he gives me a small nod
before he steps past,
handing a folded exam
to the next nervous student.

By Maria Brady-Smith