An unexpected occurrence happened
when I was in the sixth grade at Reeb
Avenue Elementary School. The Bell
had rung to begin class, and we students,
seated and waiting, expected our teacher
to appear any second as usual. Instead,
our principal, Mr. Callahan strode into
the room and announced that he had
some sad news. Miss Hannah had died.
I remember being shocked as he continued
to speak to us. It just didn’t happen that
teachers died when they are my very own
teacher, I thought. In fact, I’d never heard
of a teacher dying.
Mr. Callahan said we’d have a new teacher
by tomorrow and that we’d be stuck with him
until then. No one even chuckled. The heavy
moment forbid that. I squirmed in my seat,
kept repeating in my head that Miss Hannah
was dead. I didn’t know exactly what that meant
except that she wouldn’t be coming back and
that I would never see her again.
My lasting memory would be of a stout woman
with a bun at the back of her head and who wore
dresses I called old-woman dresses with big flowers
on them. She never smiled, went about the business
of teaching with the seriousness of a surgeon
performing a brain operation.
I liked her. She made steady the ship of my life
while parents practically capsized the vessel
with their frequent bickering and arguments.
Miss Hannah provided a safe port.
I trudged home after school that day with heavy
steps and heart. I told Mom what had happened.
Dad snored on the couch, recovering from a booze
binge. Mom said everything would be okay and
not to fret.
I went outside, plopped down on the first step
of the wooden porch that fourteen steps led up to
and that led to our apartment-like home over
my parents’ confectionery on Barthman Avenue.
I closed my eyes, held my head in my hands.
The world moved on without a sound,
while I stayed behind, learning how to mourn.
