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My classroom looked just as I left in on March 13th.
But the feeling was totally different today as I gathered materials I would need, possibly through the end of the year. I saw one student's water bottle, abandoned on the desk. Papers in the mailboxes, just waiting for a child to put them in a folder. My denim jacket left on my rolling chair. When March began, I wrote about a school being full of stories. And now the school stands empty, the stories paused. Each day, my own children tell me more about their own classes. They tell me about their journal writing or their science experiments or how they had "Fun Friday." Stories they never told me before, uncovered now. They tell me about their school as if it is in the present tense, as if they will go back soon. I hope they can. I hope we can. I hope the stories will start again. Today, the school was so silent. Unnaturally silent.
3 Comments
Ellen Smith
3/27/2020 03:27:43 pm
Ouch - we are going in on Monday - and will experience the poignancy that you describe, stories paused, even altered mid-tale. Your own children are a boon during this challenging time. 3/27/2020 04:55:28 pm
I think we have new stories, like the ones that have been uncovered by your kids to share with you. That sounds beautiful. The abandoned water bottle, the papers, your jacket - all captured so well how fast it all changed.
Amanda Regan
3/27/2020 05:02:38 pm
This slice is hauntingly beautiful. I especially like the line, "And now the school stands empty, the stories paused." They are only paused. They will begin again. Hopefully sooner than later. Leave a Reply. |
AuthorKathleen Neagle Sokolowski Archives
October 2021
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