7:36 p.m. - Friday, Nov. 9, 2012
Not This Time
I scowled . . .scratching at the white couch with my fingernails. "This is it," I shrugged. Frustrated. The barricade. Unable to even describe the fictional wall standing between me and what I wanted. To name a meaningless material. Was it made of brick? Wood? Glass?
Iron. Piles of iron. Criss-crossed in such a way as to stop even a tank from penetrating the defensive line.
I shoved my hand deep into the pocket of my coat, in search of my car keys, when my fingers brushed against something crunchy and brittle. Leaves. "Here, I got these for you!" he had said . . .handing me the brown leaves. "Thank you," I had said . . .stuffing them into my pocket for safe keeping. As we were about to go in, he had reached his hand into my pocket to make sure they were there. The precious gifts.
No boundaries. No sense of personal space. They touch my hair, my skin. Rub their hands on my arms. Grab me by the legs, squeeze my waist. They sit too close and lean their heads on my shoulders. They laugh whole-heartedly when they're happy and cry desperately when they're sad.
They are my teachers.
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