why we returnTwo full weeks of school, down.
From the front lines, herewith an attempt to explain the reason we return
like penguins, salmon, monarchs, lemmings; mindlessly ritualistic and
apparently without the will
to do otherwise.
It's gotta be instinct.
7:46 a.m.
Darn it, running a smidge away from late; what's new.
One of the closest livers to school,
it is the same way every day
despite the best geography.
Lugging three Mexican
market bags, a priceless vintage bag,
a backpack, sweaty-cold
water bottles and assorted lunch ingredients threatening
to break out from too-thin plastic bags,
shuffling past mini-vans
spilling children to the sidewalk,
forever schlepping,
trusty pack mule
navigating the slippery slopes
of education another day.
The day ahead bodes not
much differently:
hauling drippy brushes, glue bowls,
greasy pastels, (ultra-soft
for small hands)
reams of paper,
folders, boxes, baskets, Tupperware
and a universe of semi- and fully-
finished art projects.
Someday i vow to look like the
über-woman in the Coach-
make that Vuitton, ad.
A sleek bag will balance
ever so effortlessly
from the forearm.
That One Bag will hold it all
and not bear the logo
of Price-Chopper.
From a sliding car door emerges
G, a first grader who is,
to be trite,
larger than life.
Sprightly,
incredibly bright
and perceptive, she joins
me in my now accelerated pace,
a quickstep to avoid being
mowed down by the crowd descending
on the two open entrance doors.
Keeping pace and chatting gingerly,
as if we were bgf's who never hung
up,
"Good morning, Ms. Weeks."
"Good morning, G."
Her eyes move from my toes up
to my head, down, then up again,
repeating the surveillance several
times.
"Wow, you look like it's
Whacky Wednesday."
"That's right, G, just like
Whacky Wednesday."
"Gee, with you, Ms. Weeks,
it's like it's:
Whacky Monday, Whacky Tuesday, Whacky Wednesday,
Whacky Thursday, AND Whacky Friday!"
"That's right, G,
every day is whacky."
"Yeah, every day is
whacky."
G proceeds to heft open one of the closed
main doors, holding it open for me with all her
might while i have already scooted through
the open door beside it.
She continues to hold it wide open, as if i were
going to pass through.
"Why, thank you, G, how kind of you."
"You're welcome, Ms. Weeks."
She then swings open yet another door
in the next bank,
believing i will certainly pass through.
But i am already inside the building.
"Thank you, G, you are sooooo polite."
"You're welcome, Ms. Weeks."
"Have a wonderful day, G."
"You too, Ms. Weeks, bye!"
"Bye, G."
The power of belief.
She proceeds on her merry way to the first grade wing
while i turn into the office,
saying a silent prayer of thanks for G.
