I am the square screen that dad smoothed out with a hot iron, Shouted by mom in the lesson box, with mistakes, Gently wiped with the sharp edge of a thin blade. I have been familiar with this dangerous object since I was seven years old. I learned how to handle it before I learned how to write. My mother corrected me, shouting provocatively and not joyfully, placing me there, in a cage... But it was in vain - My handwriting, meanwhile, never became a pleasant sight for my mother’s eyes.