"Gambel, what's this, bakit hindi tapos ito?"

His notes ate only half of the first page, the last line hanging in a midsentence: 'Mga batang Pilipino...'

"Because I'm in a hurry to get home."

"And why is that?"

"So I can rest."

Mom's ESP came through: "Uh-huh. You're not in a hurry to get home to rest. You're hurrying so you can play GameBoy."

The words 'Pag nainis ako itatago ko yang GameBoy' hung in the air.

But she bit her lip and asked instead, "Why aren't you copying teacher's notes?"

Silence. Then a shrug.

"How can mommy help you? Why are you having trouble copying from the board? Di mo ba makita?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm at the BACKEST." He quickly brushed off the tear that fell as he said this.

"Oh, you're at the backest? Do you want me to write teacher a note? Do you want me to ask her to move you closer to the board?" She asked, looking him in the eye.

"Yes," he said, his eyes more hopeful now.

She smiled a half-smile as she drew him close into a hug, overwhelmed by the delight of his innocent attempt at grammar, and the sadness over his powerlessness over a seating arrangement. She had wanted to tell him about the real world and how things could be worse than being at the backest; that someday even if she wanted to, a million notes to teacher couldn't help him with his battles.

Instead she stroked his hair and prayed, that the quiet reassurance she was giving him that moment would sow strength and confidence for when the world becomes his to face and conquer.