Jill.

“To be, or not to be--that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.”

How strange it is, hearing a voice so young utter words so old. Shakespeare is much, much older than Jill…almost fifty times her age, when you think about it. Yet here she is, eyes closed, antennae swishing to the rhythm of the soliloquy, flicking at the end of each line as she unconsciously clenches her hands tightly on the book; the words are slipping, it seems, and she must grab them else they fly away.

“To die, to sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—to sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.”

They aren’t escaping, though—they’re fluttering about like tamed birds, the tentative quality of her voice only adding to the hesitant nature of the words. Hamlet isn’t sure of himself when he’s saying this in the play…quite the opposite. He’s anxious, confused and afraid of how his life may continue—or end. Can’t she see that she’s mastered it? She’s remembering it perfectly, every last word. I am so proud…at her age, what was I doing? Compulsively measuring cracks in a wall. Not memorizing famous speeches, not reading up a storm, studying science, excelling in art. My children are, though, and it is amazing. Where will they be when they are my age? What will they be able to do?

“There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong…the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?” Jill pauses to giggle—she always laughs when she says “bodkin”—then presses on, her voice grave and sad. It’s not an act; she knows exactly what she’s talking about and how it relates to life today. The emotion is real. I feel guilty…why did I suggest that they memorize separate speeches from Shakespeare? I should have seen this coming…but no, even then it wouldn’t amount to much. Life is full of reminders of how bad things can be—after all, D10 is still here, people are still dying…perhaps it’s best that this reminder is less direct and beautiful in its own right.

Jack is sitting next to me, nodding off against my side and clutching the copy of “Romeo and Juliet” close. For a second I wonder if it’s smart to let him sleep and read his snippet of Shakespeare later, maybe tomorrow when he’s more rested; I shake my head at the thought immediately after. No, he’d be upset that he didn’t recite his soliloquy right after Jill, no matter how tired he was. As if in affirmation, Jack stirs and blinks over at his sister, smiling a bit and looking down at his book. His mandibles move silently as he reiterates the words. My antennae flick and I focus on Jill again.

“Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will…” Jill pauses and stares at me, eyes wide and a blank expression flickering across her features to be quickly covered by fear and embarrassment. She’s forgotten the words.

I give her a few moments to try to find her place before prompting her with the next few words. “And makes us rather bear…?”

A small spark seems to light up her eyes and she continues the sentence, stumbling over the words and going back to her original rhythm.

“Bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprise of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action—Soft you now, the fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!”