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Father, |
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A quiet tension fills the room |
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on this last day of school. |
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I expected exuberance and rowdiness, |
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but that came yesterday, |
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when there was still one day to go. |
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Today the children are disturbingly subdued. |
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I am embarrassed at my own emotions; |
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I cannot look at the children directly. |
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The room is so blank. |
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Our desks are cleaned out. |
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The last traces of the party have been swept away. |
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The charts and posters are down for the summer. |
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So now we sit quietly, |
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too wrought even for songs and games, |
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and we wait for the bus to come. |
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I expect to see these children again, of course, |
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but it won’t be the same. |
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They know it, |
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and I know it. |
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They will come around to see me, |
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jealous of the new class, |
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and I will look at a room of little strangers |
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and miss the familiar faces. |
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In time |
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the strangers will become friends. |
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But every class is different and special; |
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no new group of children will ever take the place |
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of the one leaving me today. |
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Lord, |
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I have worked hard, |
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and I have loved these children dearly. |
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In investing in their future |
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I have cast my bread upon the waters, |
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content that I will find it after many days. |
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Lord, I commend them into your hands. |
