“Hey!” he said as he looked both ways

and tentatively crossed our busy street.

“Do you know where the middle school is?”

It was 8:15.

We were about to get into our car,

drive to Milwaukee to the art museum—

a diversion for me, a newly retired teacher.

School had started two days ago.

Backpacked kids, sort of awake,

were having contests burping their breakfast

as they walked past our house.

They were leaving their 6^th grade, 8^th grade,

freshman year footprints

on our sidewalk.

This young man, a new 6^th grader— 

I reckoned—though afraid,

had the gumption to ask directions.

“You see that one way sign down there,

at the end of the block?

You go down that street to the left.

That’s where your school is.

Are you new here?”

“No. It’s just this is the first day

I’ve had to walk to school alone.”

Tears were building in his eyes,

eyes that would stare at white boards,

SMART boards, and papers all day.

“I hope you have a good day!

Make it a good day!” I said to him,

my own tears welling

for all those students I no longer can direct.

© by Marilyn Zelke-Windau.
Used with the author’s permission.