The teacher

I am looking for an address. An address that I wrote at least a year ago. I am sure I wrote it on a paper and kept in a book that I was reading. I go through anthologies of Wordsworth and Burns. Maybe I kept it in my King Lear. I am not sure. I guess I will have to look through all of them. My old books, my friends. I don't quite touch them the way I used to 15 years ago.
Two decades ago I quit teaching. Two decades ago I stopped being the giver. When I first decided to teach, a lot of people asked an impatient woman with a quick temper why she wanted to get into teaching. Where children would inevitably test my patience. Where I would be alternately hated and  loved. Where the homework exercises would earn me grumbles. Where my strict grading would elicit strong reactions.
Teaching changed me. To knowing words, to knowing their meanings. Creating the magic that I experienced when I first read Paradise lost. I wanted to share my passion.
And then I see it. A card. A hand crafted card, with the crude charm of a fifth grader. Wishing me season's greetings. And on the inside, a handwritten "Happy New Year". I remember her. I remember all of them, in fact. I can at least recollect one incident about them! I smile, my eyes mist over. I am not sure where she is now, where most of them are. But to know that I was appreciated enough to warrant a personal greeting from one person is enough....quite enough.
Oh I remember, I kept the slip of paper in one of my journals. I think I will read my old ones now...I will remember again..

The donor

I sit staring at the blank white walls, when she sits next to me. I do not want to make eye contact, but I do. She holds my hands. Tears flow from her eyes; chest heaving, she makes futile attempts at speaking. She then tightens her hand around my mine.
He was born late in their marriage. Thirteen is an unlucky number. He was born 13 years after their marriage when they had given up hope. He was their little miracle. And their only miracle. To have him in an accident and have a failing heart is just about the worst thing that could happen.
They want my approval.
My daughter has been in a diabetic coma for 12 years now. She was 13. She fainted one day in the kitchen and has not woken up from it. The doctors say it may take days, weeks or years for her to wake up. They also tell me she might never come out of it.
Do I want that chance of having her wake up soon? Yes. What if she doesn't and the boy dies without ever having had a chance? How will my daughter feel about this when she wakes up? Am I that powerful and strong to deny another life when the one that is shouldn't be? Will I be able to live with the guilt either way?
I can hear monitors beeping, nurses walking, vending machines clink. And I sit staring at the blank white walls, waiting for some sign of superior intervention. I get none. I must make a decision.
I nod. I nod furiously now. She can have her son. I will have my daughter's memory. I will forever regret the decision and base it on what if, but at least I can take comfort in the way his eyes would hold mine- with life.