The First Month
By: Norita Larson
My legs no longer ache from walking the hallways, but I still find the absence of weather strange. When I worked at home, I told time by the sun. Now I carry a watch with a broken wrist-band.
December 21st, the winter solstice: I get up in the dark and watch for a sign of this extraordinary event, but none comes. Light just happens. I turn around and see the neighbor's house in bas-relief. On the boulevard, a stray dog sniffs at the maple. The arc has turned.
In school no one observes the solstice. It is the last day before Christmas vacation, and the hallways are a jumble of limbs, children with small gifts and bags of individually wrapped candies. By noon the nurses' office is crowded. Mrs. Tary is standing with her hands in the pockets of her white smock. Her eyes roll. Lined up on the couch are three fourth-graders holding cloths to their bleeding lips and knees. Passing a window, I notice Leon - whose brother pulled a gun at home last week - limping off the playground, his face turned backward in a snarl. Mr. Boyd, the gym teacher, is propelling him forward by the elbow to the principal's office.
Later on Leon comes to the small room that I use for my tutoring office. I review prefixes and suffixes with him. He barely answers. When I look at my watch, it is time for him to leave and the next student to come in. I smile and say, "Merry Christmas, Leon." I am unable to say, "Leon. The sun is at the solstice and I am in deep trouble myself. Leon. Fix yourself to that arc. It will get no darker for us."
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