First day of school: the surge of bodies, panic of locker combinations, yellowing of schedules. The press to see just how far you can get this teacher to bend, the anger at having to get up in the early hours of now. The buoyancy of being ready again, fresh pencils, labeled notebooks, syllabus in hand, narrow words in the margins. The ting of a bell that wasn't yours, is now yours. Scramble, shuffle, patter of voices in the halls. The kind of pace you don't have in the summer: quick, nimble, immediate reaction time. The attention swells, neediness, and there is silence, at once, surprising. The call to silence, never answered; this call, plaintive. Toward sunrise, venetian blinds stir. We are here again, ready. The juxtaposition of a bad hour with a good, how easily that can change tomorrow.
And realizing, each day, how small a small town is: the optometrist's receptionist is wife to your school's activities' director slash assistant principal. Your failing eyes' secrets are now known.
7 hours ago