Before the
First Day
The parking lot waits solemnly cold
and grey,
Finishing summer projects, thinking
about the year,
Coy thoughts misguided by the past
rule the day,
After all, the future may have a tear.
Awake now, September mist, inviting
and true,
Old green chalkboards forlorn and
dust free,
Lockers seemingly abandoned, empty
and Viking blue,
Teachers and faculty always struggle
to agree.
Lessons and conference calls, turkey
sandwiches and bitter coffee,
Stacked high with hope and
excitement, shouldering responsibility,
Crimson red and nightshade black pens
waiting with glee,
Reflected in the mirror, the truth is
the ability.
Perhaps when the break comes through
winter’s door
I will think back on this day even
more.
While not framed in a poem, this was the apprehension and
excitement in Jerold Hosuing’s mind as he collected himself on the final day
before his student filled his classroom. Jerold paced the room; books were
jumping off the shelves. The cold sweat, mitigated with repetitive inhales and
exhales, was warmed by the acrid boiling coffee he kept pouring down his
gullet. He thought to himself, “How am I ever supposed to plan a lesson when I
keep getting interrupted!” Even through this frustration, Jerold’s hands barely
kept still at the welcoming thought of a new year, fresh minds, and unique
experiences that would soon be his reality.
After all, the truth is different every year. Jerold held a light, out
of character, giggle under his breath as he thought, “Two opposing truths don’t
make the other any less correct.”
