Kindergarten
by
Thomas Kearnes
If you don´t listen carefully, infinite and intimate can be mistaken for one another. Colleen thinks about these things while buttoning up their coats or wiping their noses before they leave for the bus, or their parents, or the wooded walk home. She can´t share these thoughts with them, of course. They´re too young to know that one of the few things more dangerous than fireworks is to split the word: fire works.
Colleen wraps little Cyndi two more times in her too-long red wool scarf so it won´t trail the ground when she dodders toward the parents´ pick-up area. She kisses the air before Cyndi´s nose, wishes her a good night and reminds her to get her mother to sign the permission slip for their field trip to the zoo next week. Colleen knows the slip will be signed at the last minute or not at all. Like the report cards riddled with C´s and D´s, Cyndi likely will return it at the very last moment with a signature scrawled across it that may or may not be her mother´s hand.
To forge: either to manufacture deceptively or to progress at an even rate of speed.
Colleen wonders who will teach her children the intricate wonders of the language long after the cubbyholes and recesses of her time with them has passed. It saddens her that not all her students will remember even her name, perhaps just that she favored bright green markers while teaching basic arithmetic on the dry-erase board or she preferred to receive oranges instead of apples.
When Cyndi cries for help, who will have taught her the words she uses? Who will be blamed if no one understands her?
The last of the children dressed to face the cold afternoon file out her door and Colleen shuts it behind them. Suddenly, her eyes brim with tears: there is so much she wants to teach them, so much she can´t. Through the half-open coat closet door, she notices a blue rain jacket still hanging from a peg. She goes to retrieve it, holds it to her face with both fists as if identifying it by scent.
Only one letter separates closet from closest.
Colleen wraps little Cyndi two more times in her too-long red wool scarf so it won´t trail the ground when she dodders toward the parents´ pick-up area. She kisses the air before Cyndi´s nose, wishes her a good night and reminds her to get her mother to sign the permission slip for their field trip to the zoo next week. Colleen knows the slip will be signed at the last minute or not at all. Like the report cards riddled with C´s and D´s, Cyndi likely will return it at the very last moment with a signature scrawled across it that may or may not be her mother´s hand.
To forge: either to manufacture deceptively or to progress at an even rate of speed.
Colleen wonders who will teach her children the intricate wonders of the language long after the cubbyholes and recesses of her time with them has passed. It saddens her that not all her students will remember even her name, perhaps just that she favored bright green markers while teaching basic arithmetic on the dry-erase board or she preferred to receive oranges instead of apples.
When Cyndi cries for help, who will have taught her the words she uses? Who will be blamed if no one understands her?
The last of the children dressed to face the cold afternoon file out her door and Colleen shuts it behind them. Suddenly, her eyes brim with tears: there is so much she wants to teach them, so much she can´t. Through the half-open coat closet door, she notices a blue rain jacket still hanging from a peg. She goes to retrieve it, holds it to her face with both fists as if identifying it by scent.
Only one letter separates closet from closest.
NUNUM
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