Tchaikovsky

My family loves classical music.

During dinner, sometimes, they talk about Tchaikovsky.

I wonder if they pronounce it correctly. They all have a slightly different interpretation, and although they all squint at each other daringly, no one has ever outrightly contradicted the other, for though they'd love to impose their culture on the rest they'd doubtfully survive it if they were wrong.

I listen to Tchaikovsky sometimes as well. I love the piano. But I am unlucky to have an illiterate kind of love and a simple kind of mouth; the intensity I try to convey comes off childish, translucent, misinformed.

Therefore, I sit quietly during dinner. I nod at their praises, take mind of their insight. I dare not my inexperienced voice into this fight of refined tastes. And though his music swirls around in my mind, I have no pronunciation for Tchaikovsky; I have never spoken his name aloud.

When they tire of instruments and compositions, they switch to philosophy. It keeps them occupied: a subject of invisible horizons, of mysteries so vague there is no pressure to solve them.

They dive into long discussions, building on each other's opinions, bouncing with momentum and intent.

I witness it unfold from my seat at the dinner table, mesmerized by their words of confidence and rhythm. The most alluring perceptiveness and enticing sensitivity.

I am, of course, beyond intimidated by this charm of culture and pretension. Were I to claim interest in the subject, and I'd be whisked into a lightning speed discussion to either prove my own worth or be discredited.

They have talked of a book about religion. A book which digs into its roots. I found the concept intriguing, but I won't ask them for the title: I wish not to disclose my blossoming interest for these things yet; it is, as I see it, in my best interest to listen to Tchaikovsky in my mind, to think of philosophy in my own time, to keep my simple opinions to myself while nodding quietly during dinner.