Lost

In first grade we would march, single file, past the cooks, through linoleum cafeteria, past the table where I sat at and gave Jeff Holloway a quarter to see him spit milk out of his nose, and into the storage room that was transformed into our art classroom.

Miss A awaited our arrival. I don't know that I ever knew her full name. I was enamoured with the construction paper portrait she had made of herself, taped to the door, curled strips of brown construction paper for hair and all.

The room smelled of paste and newsprint. It was the first time I recall being given a big enough piece of paper, and crayons upon crayons, and the time to get lost. I relished Mrs. Lang announcing that we would have art that day. The time couldn't come fast enough and the time there sped away all too quickly.

This came to an end, however. As Miss A was attacked by a squirrel. Having not been able to catch the squirrel; she had to go through a series of rabies shots. I missed smelling the paste and newsprint.

The lightness of spring faded and trees spread themselves in full glory. We stole away spinning and spinning on the merry-go-round. And when the bell summoned us back in Mrs. Lang informed us that Miss A was back and looking forward to us discovering with her again. I liked that, "discovering." And we went. And I smiled at Miss A with her arm in a sling and healing scratch marks. I stole away to my seat and grabbed crayons and let ideas circle around my head and found time disappearing and I still can't imagine anything that I'm more thankful for.