The last day

On the last day of school my students walked out the door and left me with promises of dropping by next year to say hello.

Some wanted to give me a hug but hesitated because it’s just not done any more. Teachers and kids don’t touch, you know. There are lawsuits to worry about.

Some hugged me anyway.

But all of them left. That’s what they’re supposed to do.

I will see them taller next fall. They’ll come round at first and say, “Hey, Mrs. Spencer,” and then head to their new class with Mr. What’s-His-Name, the teacher who scared them to death this year.

They leave, but I do not.

I come back to the same room, open the same books, and teach the same lessons, counting on the promise of rediscovery that slips in the door with newcomers each year.

New students bring new questions, fresh perspectives. Through their eyes I will see again for the first time the little heir hidden in the word their when I don’t want to write there. I will laughingly discover with them that Rosetta Stone is not really a person.

They will make my teaching new because it will be new to them. It will be fresh and alive and inviting and so worth the light in their eyes when they finally “get it.”

But this year, on the day we all pressed toward the reward of our labors, I couldn’t help but say, Yes! Hurray! Finally! At last! Peace! Quiet!

The room was actually quiet. And neat. Empty desks sat in very straight rows because no children wiggled them out of line. They were gone.

They were gone like the bird in the gym.

It flew in through an open door one morning and flitted from backboard to backboard. It soared toward the lights in the high ceiling, round and round, searching for a way out, resting for brief moments on the nubby plaster walls.

Not until someone turned out the lights did it see the bright doorway and fly out into the freedom of day.

All year my students have flown beneath the high-ceilinged halls of learning, round and round over charts and quizzes and rules and me preaching against the tempting glow of drugs and gangs and life-draining distractions.

And finally, on the last day of school, I turned out the lights and they soared out the door and into their future.

The artist is gone.

The soldier is gone.

The boy who lived in a motel with his dad is gone. The guitar player, fashion diva and soccer goalie are gone.

Gladly they left their books and homework and me behind and rushed toward the freedom of summer.

As I look back on it, there really is nothing quite as exhilarating as the last day of school.

Unless, of course, it is the first.