And then in minutes, lunches made, and backpacks packed, I was walking out the door. We yelled our goodbyes across the house and my legs walked to a car I barely saw. My mind still in his room, my body still feeling his body, wiry and warm curling into mine.
It is dark outside, and pouring. My breath trembles within me and I am close to pulling over, turning back, calling in. I am tired, and this is all just too hard. But I press on. Slowly through the backsplash of the truck in front of me, slowly rounding the curve almost blindly, thankful that it is 6:30 and there is no one on the sidewalk or close to the curb.
I am there at the school, smiling beneath my mask as I listen to my colleagues, my friends, as they exhale their anxiety. I am an ear and a laugh. I am anything but the hug I used to be. I am my hidden smile. They ask about me, and I am fine. I am always fine. I share my night but lighten it, always. It was fine. I got some sleep. Tonight will be better. I am fine.
There is a boy outside my room. He is a teen, but now a child. His shoulders are up and he is tense. I chat about nothing and open the door. We talk about his college essay. We do not talk about his mom. The pressure. We talk about words written on a page and he relaxes. Then there are more. They trudge in, silently, and I think of every other year, of every other class that has never been this quiet. That has never been this still. They stare at me, at the wall, at nothing at all from behind masks. I call their names. They do not answer. I have seen them and they feel no need. They know I know. I stop. I breathe. I tell them that I see them. I cut open the gash that is festering. I let in the air. We need to talk. So they tell me. They speak their every pressing needs. We do not worry about the work. We will get to it. First we talk. They talk and I listen. I laugh and smile and tease.
I tell them about my night. I tell them about my beautiful daughter and how she sits there hour after hour staring at a screen, reminding her teacher in a classroom just a mile away that she is present, that she is more than just a voice. I share with them that since the start of the pandemic I have become obsessed with trauma shows. I have no time for funny. I want to feel, like there is not enough drama to fill the world from my small life alone. I am binging heartache so I don't feel my own.
I tell them I want a dog. I know that it might kill my husband, but there is a hole in my heart that has widened since COVID and the only thing that can fill it is a helpless furry creature who loves me and only me. I will not allow it to love anyone as much. That is where I am right now.
And as I share, I feel the lightening of the room. For a moment, we are all face to face, nothing in between us but the oxygen we share. For a moment we are back to what we were.
And then a hand goes up and the question is asked about the essay, about the word count about the due dates, and we are back. Reality closes in.
For now, I will live in that moment that we had. That moment where we all forgot the present. That will be the moment that gets me through the week. Because when you are the person that other people turn to, it's easier just to say I'm fine. I will sleep tonight. I know it.
