I Mourn the Traditional and My Senses Wake

Day 0.1

Still nine months to go

Grade: Kindergarten

            Open classroom door, wind blows by. Tacked memos and posters flutter against dingy white walls. Flap, flap, flapping in the breeze. The wind picks up early fallen leaves. Asphalt, concrete and crunching leaves resonate through my reminiscing ears.

            Early September smells like brown bag lunches and salty, dusty kids gleefully playing at recess. The air conditioner switches on with a low grade click, the teacher breathes deeply, sweaty children fan themselves.

Laminated posters line the walls promising perfectly sharp edges that will poke little fingers when explored. Coveted posters covered in thick plastic splash inspiration along the classroom walls.

             Plastic pencil boxes creak open exposing joyfully colored writing implements promising pages of stories and perfectly written cursive. Pencil lead tap, tap, tapping on laminate desk tops.

            Art work, prized by the teacher and student, hung, to be applauded by parents, from fishing line or unfolded paper clips from ceiling tiles.

            The mystery stain on the carpet half hidden by a bookshelf, almost always brown or faded gray, cleaned but only dulled, attracting dirt illuminating itself among the rest of the carpet the way patches of silver hair reflect light on a brown head of hair. Hidden, forgotten, accepted, and loved.