I was sitting on a desk in a colleague’s classroom. Thursday
afternoon. School was over, and I was probably complaining about something, as
this seems to be my greatest feat this year. I complain really well.
I didn’t want to talk to any more students. Five more days and this school year will be over.
A student waving in the hall caught my
attention. She was waving at me. What does she want? Does she want to know how
to bring her grade up with one more day of class left? Does she want an extra
copy of something she lost? Am I going to have to get up and do something for
her? I waved her in, as it was my duty.
“I was going to wait to give this to you tomorrow, but
here.” She held out her hand to give me something. I reached out and cupped her
gift. A Ferrero Rocher chocolate. I could tell she was really excited to give
this to me, so much so, she couldn’t wait another day. She had this chocolate
planned for me. Immediately I felt so undeserving of the hazelnut goodness. I had
just been dreading her visit, and here, all she wanted to do was give me this
gift.
Anger bought this year from me, and I gave it up for cheap.
The idea of a location completely changing the person you are, I never thought
that’d be me. I thought I knew God well enough—well enough to stay mellow. But
as it is, I dread everything. Even gifts. And I aged. It’s noticeable. So many wrinkles, and it’s all my fault. You can go home again, but you can’t return to who you were 10 years ago, and you can’t remain who you’ve been the past six years. And so I end up tired and angry and lost. I end up falling short of many expectations, including my own, and 100 pounds heavier. I feel like everybody
wants to tell me, I’m not who they expected. Everybody wants to tell me they
thought I’d bring more joy or humor. But all I bring is dread.
But I can’t stop thinking about Thursday. I can’t stop
thinking about how much I dreaded the girl in the hallway. I can’t stop
thinking about how I wanted to send her away. And I can’t stop thinking about what
happened next.
