Poem: "Education Is a Matter of Perspective"
This is today's first freebie. It was inspired by a prompt from my_partner_doug. It belongs to the Monster House series, which you can explore further on the Serial Poetry page.
Education Is a Matter of Perspective
"Mommy, I'll be fine," says our daughter
as she hugs my wife.
Her pigtails bounce as she hops into the bus,
white cane dangling carelessly from one hand,
the other hand clutching the gremlin I couldn't see.
"Five bucks says we get a phone call
from the school today," I say.
"No bet," my wife mutters.
* * *
Kindergarten is boring.
I already know the alphabet and the colors
and I can count, even if the teacher
doesn't expect me to just because I can't see,
which is pretty stupid of her.
I thought teachers were supposed to be smart.
Kindergarten is boring,
but people are fun, and at school
there are people everywhere,
talking about all kinds of new things.
We play games and the teacher reads stories
and the echo in the hall shows me how to throw my voice.
And then I realize that I forgot my lunch.
* * *
Now technically speaking,
a locker is not a closet,
but it has a door and it's used for storage,
so it kind of counts in much the same way
that a hide-a-bed couch counts as a bed for my cousin,
although it really is quite a tight fit,
but I'm sure this can be made to work somehow
if I can just get an arm in there --
well. Things are a bit smushed, perhaps,
but the sandwich is peanut butter so it's not too noticeable.
* * *
The first day of school is always rough,
full of children crying and parents trying not to cry,
things getting spilled and nobody knowing the rules,
being called "Mommy" and "Grandma" and "Babysitter"
by kids who yell for a grownup out of habit
without looking to see who's actually there.
The blind girl should be no trouble,
should be sitting quietly, but oh no --
she's flinging fingerpaints onto the easel
(and everyone's clothes) with great abandon,
scrambling to the top of the monkeybars,
shouting to make the hallways echo
and somehow I keep thinking that I hear her
inside cabinets and lockers and the toy drawers
where she obviously isn't.
I really need a drink,
and it's not even quitting time yet.
* * *
The teacher on the phone is a bit hysterical,
and really, you'd think they'd hire someone calmer
for kindergarten. I glare at my wife,
who is laughing as I pull the phone away from my ear,
but the teacher is still yelling something
about cabinets and voices
and little girls who know more than they should.
"Do you have anything to add?" I ask my daughter.
She giggles. "I like school," she says.
"I met the echo in the hall who knows all kinds of things,
and I learned how to throw my voice!"
"That explains a lot," I say.