I write to you from an empty classroom. It's quiet, finally, little balls of paper strewn about the floor, broken crayons and pencil nubs, abandoned books stacked precariously, post-its come unstuck from my computer monitor, half in and half out, half ready to go. A stack of exams on the desk is all that's left to grade. Tonight, my eyes will cross slightly, irritated at the cramped handwriting, relieved at the end.
It's sort of like Christmas Eve, one of those rare moments when you are giddy again. I was giddy when I got married, giddy for our honeymoon. I am giddy for Iago, though I don't feel it yet, not fully anyway. And I'm giddy when the last students empty from the classroom, not because I am overjoyed at good-bye, but overjoyed at the potential and the peace and the wide expanse of summer, at rest. It's that trembly feeling that huh-huh-huh's in your chest. Something between a shriek and laughter, not sure which, just happy.
I'm glad the momentum of the end of the school year propels into this weekend. I'm grateful for that. The quiet of an ordinary weekend would not seem right; it would feel a let down. And this weekend: great thunderstorms, roiling ones. That's what the weatherman predicts, so we are scurrying for tarps and cribbage boards, thinking of the slush beneath puppy feet. I can photograph rain too.
So this is it. Or almost it. Two hours to work this afternoon, four hours tomorrow morning. But the true part, the everyday part. It's over now. I think I'll just sit quietly for a little bit first.
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