The names and the faces, all of them, go into a box. They get stored there, next to the others.
In my head. All those kids. Their parents. Their behaviors. Their funny moments. And I file them away. I try to keep them out of the archives, since I never know when I might need to access them again. It's a lot like going through the skiff on the top of my desk at the end of the year. When I set that adapter on the corner, I was going to get right back to it. It belonged to someone's Chromebook. Or phone. Or hotspot.
I held onto it for a reason. The reason I held onto it now escapes me. I might need it. Someone might need it.
Someone will probably need all those names and faces. Me, for example. In the weeks and months to come, someone will invariably ask if I remember that kid from third grade who had a sister who used to go here. Because for me, they will always go here. Because they always come back.
Okay. Not always, but quite often. This is when I am given the opportunity to remember who that person used to be. Before the ravages of time took over and they were a foot shorter. With different hair. Or different sense of style.
They sometimes end up walking their little brother, sister, cousin, friend in that front gate. Because that's what they used to do. Weeks or months ago. Now they're back and the onus is on me to recall the name and the face and the time that he or she went to the thing or forgot the other thing. The ones I have no trouble remembering are the ones for whom I made special trips up on the roof to reacquire their lost football, soccer ball, water bottle, lunch box, shoe. They get to hang around for a moment while I recall that rescue mission in graphic detail.
All of this to make room for the new faces and names. The ones that will fit into those slots where the quiet, pleasant kids who made their way through our school without making any nasty waves or confounded adults in any particular waves. They will have to earn that special distinction of being etched in the memory banks. The forever kids.
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