It’s Four O’clock here, the day your dream comes to fruition.
It’s four o’clock here, I envision you cradling him in your arms,
wrapped up like a burrito and I see her:
twenty-six, khakis, yellow t-shirt, black flats
she stands in the doorway looking at the class library,
the one she spent her own money on to set up
the class rules stapled to the bulletin board,
the Word Wall awaiting its words
“We will not start the year like this,” she demands–
her attempt to sound authoritative,
but on the inside she feels small, young,
completely unsure of who she is supposed to be as Ms. C.
It’s five now, I just got word:
you are a mother!
the corners of my mouth creep upwards and I see her again:
crying in the bathroom because a fight broke out in her room
and it felt personal, like she didn’t create a safe enough space for all of the little ones.
The curve was sharp,
the one she rode from that first day to this one.
She wears a similar look today, says things like,
“try that again,” and “I’m here for you,” and “Let’s breathe together”
Then, I know you will be just fine;