I stand taller yet, flash a smile to 20 upturned faces. Sweet little ten-year-olds. I’ll miss you, girlies

It’s the last day of the school year, my first one as a teacher — and I’m on top of the world. Giddy with pride, and yes, some relief, too. Have I really done it? Finished my first teaching year, come out alive — and alive and kicking at that?

I breeze into the classroom and note with pleasure that the girls scuttle to their seats. For the tiniest moment, I see a vision from some months ago superimposed over the scene — me, standing at the door, watching, waiting, lip-biting while the girls take their sweet time returning to their desks, giggling over some joke or huddling over a Very Exciting Object.

Wow, was that really this year?

Or rather: Is this very beautiful scene today, of impeccable classroom decorum, in the same year as the other?

Yes. Yes.

I stand taller yet, flash a smile to 20 upturned faces. Sweet little ten-year-olds. I’ll miss you, girlies.