Reminder

Kerry Graham

I am home, again and at last. My time away—traveling, reading, napping—was the weeks-long massage my spirit required. But being here, in hallways lined with lockers and rooms crammed with desks, reminds me of how giddiness feels. Even without my students, my lovelies, here yet. They don’t come until next week, after we’ve prepped and prepared for their arrival.

For the first 10 minutes, 15, 20, I scurry between colleagues. I hug some and squeal “Happy New Year!” to all. The closer I get to my classroom, the clearer it is: I am ready.

Nudging my door open, I step into, on, among stillness. My eyes wander within the room’s four walls, where my lovelies and I will make another year’s worth of memories, magic, mistakes. I move into the room and follow the same path as any other morning: plug in the fans at the front of the room. I knot the curtains covering the windows along the far wall, opening wide each window, and then move to the back of the room, where I plug in those fans.

Next, I dismantle the stacks of desks and chairs in my classroom’s corner. Back and forth, one by one, until every lovely has a place to sit. I look around at each spot, remembering former lovelies who have sat there, imagining the new ones who will.

I smile.

Then I step toward my bookshelf for my favorite part: uncovering the books that, all summer, have been shielded. Tenderly, I peel back the butcher paper, welcoming the weary-yet-willing spines back into the sunlight. Speak. Monster. Loser. Tall and together, dozens of books stand, ready to be of service. I breathe in the words that will nourish the lovelies this year, grateful to every author who dared to put them to paper.

My mind is on my next task when I notice something in the corner. I reach for it behind my bookshelf: a single piece of paper, bent, covered in dust and dirt. As I place it on the desk closest to me and wipe it clean, I recognize which lovely’s handwriting this is. Immediately, I recall the assignment—a poetry template I use annually—but don’t remember having read his.

I am from gunshots.

I am from hard to make it to 21.

I am from dead end.

I am from football. I am from what are we going to eat tomorrow.

I am from don’t trust nobody.

I am from have to make it out of this city.

I am from smoke in the hair.

I close my eyes to the room that, moments ago, I’d been so eager to get ready. Sighing, I realize why I’d never read his poem before.

He never finished.