Bag over my shoulder, I turn around once more at the threshold of the crevice: this cave was my last abode. Giving it up is hard, but I don't have time to feel sad: the tide of mist crawls at my ... [+]
Mary L. Tabor is the author of The Woman Who Never Cooked: Short Stories, (Re)Making Love: memoir, Who by Fire:novel. Her most recent works were published in Story Magazine and Catamaran. She also writes on the arts at FactsandArts.com. "School" is in Short Circuit #06, Short Édition's quarterly review.
Remember promise
in giant red doors
you saw
while your knees shook
at the edge of the playground
with book bag and lunch pail, cold
from the thermos of milk? The sound
of the future
in the creak of the bindings
of black and white speckled notebooks?
How hope smelled in the wood
of sharp yellow pencils?
Remember how long red
margins ruled
down the side of lined paper
you titled "My Summer Vacation"
and you learned
at hard desks
how to write
in narrow white spaces
of weather, and clothes,
and long days at the beach—
not of skies bursting color
like peaches and plums
or birds' feet on sand
like the sweetness of time.
in giant red doors
you saw
while your knees shook
at the edge of the playground
with book bag and lunch pail, cold
from the thermos of milk? The sound
of the future
in the creak of the bindings
of black and white speckled notebooks?
How hope smelled in the wood
of sharp yellow pencils?
Remember how long red
margins ruled
down the side of lined paper
you titled "My Summer Vacation"
and you learned
at hard desks
how to write
in narrow white spaces
of weather, and clothes,
and long days at the beach—
not of skies bursting color
like peaches and plums
or birds' feet on sand
like the sweetness of time.