The line circles the block
thousands stand two or three abreast
some laughing and talking
some silent, remembering.

Their books,
some in their hands
others in their heads,
all autographed and penned
in the pages of their hearts.

Their stories crowded
with girls and boys,
heroes and heroines,
monsters and monkeys,
goats and clouds
biographies and legends,
and animals with tails
long and easy.

Some recount the shortcuts
that made them wizards
with words and numbers,
but none can total
the hugs or smiles
nor describe the feel
of her hand in their hair
or her pat on their shoulder.

Others trace the path
made from the sting
of her correction
to the color of their character.

They see her squatting
to their height
her big brown eyes
listening to their accounts,
gathering the yarn,
tiny histories
that made them
who they are.

The building they will enter
this morning is tectured
with her teaching
and built by the mornings
she made her self rise
from her sleep
and dress in the cloth
of her love.

Today this trong of siblings
celebrates a century
of moments on the stages
of their lives
with this woman
taller than their eyes could see
when she told her stories
and taught her lessons.

They stand in this line
beyond time and space
with cards crayoled
with gratitude
for Mrs. Currier,
this lady large in their lives,
who mothered their souls
and weaved the silvery
particles of her self
into the now of their being.

05/08/2005

Author's Note: Dedicated to my wife who has no biological offspring but, being a teacher and librarian for more than thirty years, she has thousands of children.

Posted on 05/08/2005
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier