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.

The w's

In tv shows, how are the men's hair neat and trimmed, the mustaches and beards groomed; and the women have sparkling skin and no hair even when they are stranded on an island with no supplies?

These glorious summer days

I wake up at 7. The sun is making it hot and I am excited about today. We have had 15 days of glorious vacation and we have 15 more to go and I am enjoying every minute of it. I make breakfast- Toasted bread with strawberry preserve, carrot juice and a mug of coffee. I leave some out for you. I go for a run. The music pounds in my ears and I wave at the grocer when I pass him by.
The roads wind. The trees are green and there seems to be a harmony in their cries. On the way back I pick up newspapers- all three of them on this small island. You like reading all the comic strips. I enter the house to have the clock chime 9 o'clock. I look at the kitchen table. You are still asleep. I put on some fresh coffee.
I go for a swim in the small lake a few yards away from the patio. The water is cool. I try touching the bottom of the lake- maybe I will tomorrow. I can hear your loud singing now. You can't sing if your life depended on it. I see you get the bicycle ready for a ride. As I near the house I smell the lunch. Eggplant and Parmesan, minestrone soup and strawberry shortcake for dessert.
After lunch we will sit around. I will pretend to paint and you pretend to read a book, the same page everyday. We kiss, we cuddle, we touch...In the evenings, we listen to smooth jazz and dance. I step on your toes and you tap me on the nose. We take out our dinner out to the patio. Watch the shimmering water, the shiny stars and the lazy moon. We sleep to the sound of crickets and the occasional owl.
We do the same thing every day, will do it for the next few days...these glorious summer days.

The W's

# How can a person speak underwater when drowning without any air support whatsoever, in movies and tv shows?

The mask

My face is flushed. My ears are hot. I can not stand in the spot but I swallow all semblances of dignity and nod my head. The customer is extremely unhappy with the food he ordered and  is not mincing any words letting me know what he thinks of the filet mignon he just ate. I agree that everyone should be happy to eat the food for which they paid the moon for. I decide to give him a free meal next time he comes and he seems to appreciate it.
I go out for a smoke. I loosen my tie and lean back on the wall. I get a call from my wife. I smile as   I pick it up;I remember the kiss that she gave me in the morning. She sounds brusque. And tells me she is moving out. She is sorry that this will come as a shock. She will have her attorney contact me with papers. "Her" attorney was "our" attorney. "Her" attorney is also the man she cheated on me with. I stub the cigarette, straighten my tie.
There is a new couple seated in a corner booth. They seem to be wallowing in money. The man has a full head of silver hair. The lady has diamonds twinkling in her ears. Both of their faces showed evidence of their apparent long life. I approach them. They are extremely polite and speak with a smile in their voices. I like them. I charm them. I make small jokes, compliment the lady on her baubles. They consult me when ordering their meal and I also suggest a nicely aged wine to accompany. They finish their meal. I check if they want to order dessert and understand it's their 45th anniversary. I congratulate them and am genuinely happy to see them celebrate it. I bring them their bill and wish them a good night. I get a hefty tip.
All I take back to an empty dark house is a bottle of Jack Daniels.

The W's

# Why do ghosts come out only at night/when the power gets shut off?

# How come haunted houses are dark even during day light?

#  What happens to the henchmen who get killed in the movie- what do they tell their family?