Lessons for tomorrow

⏱ ~4 min reading

Nikita was a smart boy. He quickly picked up on everything in class, memorized poems easily, and calculated in his head better than a calculator. But he had one habit—the most difficult of all.

He was procrastinating.

He will come home from school, hang his backpack on a chair and say:

— I'll do my lessons after lunch.

Will have dinner. Will sit down to watch cartoons.

— I'll do it after the cartoons.

He will watch cartoons. He will want to play with a construction set.

— I'll do it after the designer.

He'll play. Dad will come home from work, everyone will sit down to dinner.

— I'll do it after dinner.

They're having dinner. They'll want to play with the phone a little more.

— I'll do it after the phone call.

And so it goes — until it gets dark outside the window, until mom comes into the room and says:

— Nikita, you need to sleep!

Then Nikita remembered: lessons.

I grabbed my backpack, dumped my textbooks on the table. My eyes were already glued together. The letters were dancing. The examples looked like a rebus, and the poem was impossible to remember.

In the morning, Nikita woke up with a heavy head. He gave bad answers at school. Sometimes he received remarks from the teacher.

One Wednesday, it happened again. Nikita sat down for lessons at nine in the evening. The poem was long — about autumn, about a cranberry wedge. Nikita read and read — but the words didn't stick in his head.

At half past ten, my mother came in and saw her son over a book — crying, tired.

The village is nearby.

— Nikita. Let's talk.

Nikita snorted.

"I can't. I don't remember.".

— Why are you so tired?

— Because it's late.

— Why is it late?

Nikita shrugged.

Mom took his hand. Her palm was warm and smelled of cream—lavender.

"You know, son, I want to tell you something. Not as a reproach. As a gift.".

Nikita looked up.

— Imagine that tomorrow only begins when you go to bed. That your laziness today is a debt. And debts, son, become heavier every day. Now you are borrowing time from tomorrow. And tomorrow you will wake up - and it will not be enough.

Nikita thought.

— How is the loan?

Mom smiled.

"Exactly. Like a loan. Only with interest. Because a tired brain never learns as well as a fresh one.".

Nikita was silent for a long time.

— And if I do it right away, will it be better?

— Try it. Get your evening back. Lessons take up an hour. And the evening is a whole one — for playing, for reading, for me and Dad.

The next day, Nikita came home from school. He took off his jacket. He washed his hands.

I ate lunch — and while I was eating, I thought. I didn't run to the phone. I didn't sit down to watch cartoons.

He opened his backpack. He laid out his textbooks.

I did the math. Five examples — quickly. My head is fresh, the numbers obey.

I read the poem. Once. Second. Third. By five o'clock I already knew it by heart - because my brain wasn't as tired as it was last night.

I added an exercise in Ukrainian.

I closed my notebook.

I looked at my watch - an hour and a half. That's all.

And there's a whole evening ahead.

Nikita smiled. He took a book he had wanted to read for a long time - about pirates. He sat down in a chair. He finished reading three chapters.

When dad came home from work, Nikita showed me the finished notebooks.

"Dad, look. That's it.".

Dad raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Wow! Let's go play chess then?"

Nikita beamed. Playing chess with his dad was his favorite thing to do.

They played for a long time. They laughed. Nikita won one game. Then Dad won another. The third game was a draw.

When Nikita went to bed, his mother came in to wish him "good night.".

— How is your day, son?

Nikita yawned.

"Cool, Mom. Really. I'll do the same tomorrow.".

— Why?

— Because the evening is the best reward.

Mom kissed him on the forehead and turned off the light.

And Nikita fell asleep with the thought that tomorrow had already started well, because today had been lived to the fullest.