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I
get derailed every single time. I steel myself to clean up and clear
out
my closet whenever I venture beyond the door frame. The boxes are now
stacked
waist high in the corner, musty files and shoe boxes full of past
lives'
momentos are begging freedom from the shelf above. As I push my way
through
the hanging scarecrows, inching closer to the corner, allowing a ray of
light to focus on these sacred containers, the memories start popping
unbidden
into my vision. "I don't have time, right now," I tell myself, even as
remorse settles uneasily on my shoulders. But I can only edit the time.
My feelings untethered, running unbridled and away. "Now," they
demand.
My hand hovers over
the unlabelled
boxes, waiting for a sign, like playing the ouija board. A tingling
sensation
stops me by the cardboard folder in the absolute corner, edges frayed
and
papers yellowed. My teacher's memories. Now that seems so many
lifetimes
ago.
I sink to the floor
cross-legged
and open the folder reverently, gazing only briefly on the resumes,
advertisements
still attached, interview notes and letters of acceptance. I scan the
class
evaluations, the photocopies of year end reviews, certificates and an
"idea"
file I started when the possibilities seemed endless and the time so
restricted.
But the most cherished, most heartfelt, are here at the back. The
handwritten
notes from students past. I cannot believe still, the accolades are
truth.
When they itemize things like "for the personal attention" and
"unfailing
energy" or "commitment to excellence," I still feel a fraud, just
having
done what seemed necessary for each at the time. I can still see their
faces, hear their voices and laughter as they staggered towards
progress
throughout the terms. Their frustrations become my challenges, their
enlightened
euphoria I take as my own when, finally, the right chord has been
struck.
These crystallized moments seem the most important. Not the paycheck or
the workload or the extended summer break. The joy that permeates the
entire
classroom, the enthusiasm contagious and rewarding in itself. A few
scattered
photos freeze another ghost class in view. All future stars shining
brightly,
filled with promise and expectations. Ahh... the lives I have
imprinted.
The next generation of experts, the haunting failures.
My eyes look up,
blearily spying
another related envelope. My concentration abruptly shatters as my
three
year old stumbles over daddy's shoes and falls into my arms. A fierce
pudgy
hug grips my neck, his cheek sticking to mine, and his sing song voice
asking quietly, "Why you crying, mom?" I can only hug back and rock a
little
rhythm while the memories recede far enough to release their spell.
"I love you, my Ian."
When he is ready to
let go, sensing
no tickles this time, I can close the book and replace it, once more.
Another
year's worth of mental spring cleaning done. As he leads me by the
hand,
not quite trusting me alone just yet, I think, yes, this family does
deserve
the same enthusiasm, the energy and creativity that I once reserved for
the classroom.
My students are still
teaching
me, though the layers of years and of dust grow ever deeper. Thank you,
to all, once again.
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