The Classroom

I turn up at the classroom daily. My teachers are wise, funny wicked sometimes. They tolerate me and my ignorance with grace. One takes a class on bravery. She is six. I see her put her arm out for the needle. She keeps smiling even as a tear rolls down, gives the phlebotomist-uncle a kiss as she slides off the chair too big for her. I am sure to fail this class- no matter how hard I try. The next class is on patience. The nine-year-old curls up for a lumbar puncture. His doctor is not ready yet, but the boy does not move. He knows it will hurt when the needle goes in, he knows that his mother lies to him each time she says it will not hurt. But he is patient. How shall I ever measure up to him? I always like the art class. The teacher is ten. She fashions tiny figures with modelling clay. The colours are vibrant- reds greens and yellows, to compensate for the absence of colour in her own life. Never went into remission- we have all but given up, yet her colours go on. How shall I ever embellish with colours like her? The next class is on philosophy. The senior teacher is fifteen. He is full of banter and smart comebacks- beckons me close when his mum's back is turned. “I do it all for her”, he whispers. “Otherwise she will be crying all day.” “Smart Alec”, I tell him. Philosophy isn't really my subject- I don't get how he does it all. I have been a student for over two decades now, striving to weave into my life the colours, philosophy, patience and fortitude so selflessly imparted to me by my young teachers. I know I will have to move on when my time comes. Classrooms will change over time, new teachers will stand at the blackboard waiting for new students to arrive. May these students' lives be as enriched, as blessed by their teachers as my life has been by mine.