And she meant it. Not because the job was easy. Not because the system was kind. But because out there, in the cold October evening, twenty-seven stories were walking home. And tomorrow, they would walk back into her room, bringing with them all their broken, beautiful, unquantifiable selves.
She had not always been this way. In her first year, fresh from university with a degree in English literature and a head full of Keats, she had believed teaching was about the transmission of information. The theme of isolation in Frankenstein. The subjunctive mood. The quadratic formula. She had been a strict, brittle young woman who confused volume with authority. She had shouted. She had assigned detentions for slouching. A Teacher
“See you tomorrow,” she whispered.
That was thirty-two years ago. She never shouted again. And she meant it
The chalk snapped in her hand. She looked down at the two pieces, the broken halves, and smiled. But because out there, in the cold October
She would be there to catch them. She would always be there.