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The teacher asks the little boy to read the selection. It is on the great sloths of the Pliocene period or maybe it was describing the hollow nature of bird bones. His eyes answer silently, defensive and tough. I am the teacher, wait no, I am the child. I realize this boy will not hear me. He will not register kindness. He is in a dream built of bruised hurt and loneliness. This was our childhood. We were all left to scavenge the woods, to leap into cold deep waters fresh from the slick ledge of rocky cliffs. I am the teacher, wait no, I am the child. The edges are sharp of remembering, holding that map will cut you on the way to the truth. With my eyes, I respond, I see you. This is the offer, move forward, don’t look back.
Copyright 2020 Alyssa Sineni
Alyssa Sineni is a writer and jewelry artist who lives in Pittsburgh.