Читать книгу Twisted Shapes of Light - William Jolliff - Страница 11

Family genius? Your last term with me, you slumped

in the back row with the damned-if-I-care crowd,

your serious hair a coal black curtain between us.

Has it been a dozen years? I’ve watched you

push your strollers down the cracked off-campus walks,

watched you walk your kids to school, watched them

walk you to school, then run ahead, then go alone.

Now I remember why I remember. It matters to me

when students don’t engage—the classroom’s my stage,

and I want you all to love the show. Your presence

was spotty; your work regular, if not quite good.

But when I click the years it all makes sense:

You were sick. Your last semester was your first

trimester. I’m sorry. You were listening to me

babble through The Scarlet Letter, wondering if

you were going to pitch your breakfast. Then

halfway through exam week, you were married,

the right thing to do in this little town, to a boy

who aced my first-year comp, but never spoke.

I hope he’s treating you better now—he was nice

enough, but strangely quiet even then. It’s odd

you bought that house on the edge of campus.

For years I’ve given you my Winesburg nod

as an old and kindly former prof should, but

you’ve always dodged it, there, behind that veil

of hair. So maybe you’re still trying to find

the back row of town. Or trying to lose your A.