Reflection

There aren't a lot of quiet moments at an elementary school, in spite of the number of times I find myself using that word: Quiet. It's one of the reasons I arrive early each day. There are a few minutes for reflection before the onslaught continues. And one of the very quietest spots on our campus before eight o'clock is the Men's Room. Given that less than a third of our staff is male, the chances of being interrupted there, especially at the beginning of the day are slim and few.
That's where I found myself, acutely aware of the dwindling roll of toilet paper as well as the Business section left there, no doubt, by the other early arrival: a first grade teacher. Had he left the sports pages, I might have distracted myself with accounts of the previous night's highlights and scores. Instead, I decided to check on the state of my own finances. It's a rare enough experience for me to have any folding money in my wallet at all, and the fact that there were a number of bills to count was a silly sort of treat for me. Thirteen ones, two fives, and a ten. Thirty-three dollars. It felt good to feel like, for a change, I was probably carrying more cash than most of the kids I teach.
With that task behind me, I absently opened the snap that holds my photos in place. I know them all by heart, and aside from the yearly update of my son's picture, the contents of this section have not changed in more than a decade. Which is why it was odd that when I thumbed past the tiny snapshot of my father and I crossing the finish line of the Bolder Boulder Ten-K race I should get a lump in my throat. It's a relic of another time. A bookmark in the span of my life. I was surprised how quickly the thoughts and emotions rushed through me. It's not as though he was forgotten. There are a number of reminders around my house that keep him on my mind on any given day, but this was intense.
I felt sad and angry that my father didn't live long enough to see me become a teacher. I was equally frustrated that he never got to meet his namesake, my son. It was a flurry of angst set by this confrontation with mortality. I negotiated briefly with my feelings and tried to reconcile the tears and smiles. That's when the bell rang.
It was time for the kids to come off the playground into the cafeteria for breakfast, and I could hear the stirring outside in the hall. Another day had begun.