His mother's death hasn't hit him yet. His eighth grade year marred early by tragedy. He was swooped away to family in another part of the country for a time.
He was goofy, fuzzy-haired, lopsided grin, unfocused on anything related to school -- every thirteen-year-old boy cliche -- before she left him.
Upon his return he is still goofy, fuzzy-haired, and grinning...smart but not productive. Social and friendly. Unorganized and scattered.
I pick the class up at the cafeteria, as I do every day. It has begun to rain. There is a place in our open hallways where the rain comes down -- not hard, just a gentle rain but enough to create a small puddle.
He pulls his hood up on his head and heads to the open area, splashing in the puddle, doing a little skip and trot, dancing in the rain. I see pure joy on his face.
Right there in the main hallway my heart breaks open. These words flood into my mind and heart cavity and are felt deep in my gut...How could a mother leave her child? How could she not want to see his spirit alive and smiling as the drops dot his gray hood? She will miss every minute of his joyful presence, his growth, his future. I am full of rage and tears fill my eyes. Students surround me. This isn't the time.
That day I fell in a little more love with these students of mine. Especially the one who has seen the rain and is still dancing.
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