English Ed.

On the phone tonight you read me a letter,
a thank you card from a former student
telling you she discovered her passion for English Education
after taking your class her junior year of high school
two years ago.
She said you were the one person she could turn to for guidance, advice, stability
Someone who would really hear the words she muttered from beneath her breath
at a time when she was too alone and scared to even listen to herself.
She said she couldn't have lived through it
without you.
Said you had wings that flew you to her side.
You helped her see the light. Her confidence. The truth.
You inspired her.
She called you her Angel.

And I remember you back then
a life opposing inspiration
defending itself, barricaded against the day,
every day.
I remember phone calls late into the night
tears and doubt dripping from your every word
pooling down into a mess of stress and second-guessing,
the anxiety you felt each morning before you entered work
the pain your co-workers inflicted as they neglected sensitivity
in favor of more concrete attitudes like passing judgment and dismissal
All geared toward this innocent first year teacher, fresh from childhood herself,
who
in the end
absorbed herself in all their words,
passed the judgment on
and decided to dismiss
herself.

But during all this time
throughout the hurt and lack of self-esteem and inability to succeed
you still were planting baby seeds.
A 17 year old who listened to your every word,
the lesson plans you failed to believe you were even qualified to teach,
she hung on these and soaked them in, road a wave of them to Virginia
where she used your teachings as a flotation device in her life plan.

I remember driving seven hours to be by your side
through panic attacks and wasps' nests and break-ups. Breaking down.
I remember loving that I could be there, that I could do this for you,
neither of us ever knowing what you were doing for one little Angel
every day in seventh period English.

Your Angel. That was what you called her then. The only one who kept you sane and semi-confident that year. This little girl who gave you so much more than sitting in your class and staring silently.
Eyes alert. You told me once
you couldn't have lived through it
without her.

Maybe angels do exist. Maybe angels are a pair, a tri-fold of people who live alongside one another, offering what no one else can give. Maybe, more than praise or encouragement or anti-anxiety medication, what you really needed was to believe.
Angels do exist.
They spring out from the crowd in the form of students, teachers, friends. On wings made from future pieces of ourselves, they fly by classroom windows and shed feathers onto desks. They write notes to former teachers during their freshman year of college. They inspire those who have inspired them. Angels do exist.

holding hands

I want to hold your hands
press your fingertips one at a time
against the tendons, bones and skin of mine.
Each one houses something special,
something lovely
about who you are.

Index finger
for intellect
a thinking and inquisitive appendage.
Place your smarts
smartly on my knuckles
let them rest there
while I'm lost in thought.

Relax your middle fingers near my own
emotional vitality
feelings
filling these.
I want ours near each other now, and intertwined.

Rest your thirds against my skin
curiosity is housed in here
and questions, wonders at the world,
astoundment and amazement.
They inspire me to search.

Your baby
pinkie
careful with this one
it's fragile and can easily break.
Trust me with its care. I will cradle every tiny crack of skin
or film of frailty in there.
Any insecurities I find just make your fingers that much smoother,
stronger, sexy in my hand.

Your thumb.
Push it.
Press it.
Hold it hard
against the soft spot right next to my own.
Your heartbeats will pulse in through my pores
keeping time with how you feel
bring me up to speed with you
or slow me down. I am too excitable to sleep sometimes.

Holding hands is not a race.
It's comfort. Hope. It's happiness.
It's understanding,
one little finger at a time,
holding more than hands.