You, Child

This is a prose elegy for the yet living.

[And thus, it is also an oxymoron of the first order.]

You, child, were the one who taught me. You with your voice so loud ("because I'm Irish," you say), with your revolutions and your petitions to get the science teacher fired, with your eyes like small moons once the others had left and we talked of life and systems and why there is a light at the end of the tunnel, even if it is not the one you think it is and will take some walking to get to. 

You, who walked with me as we passed beyond the bricks and into the light of the outdoors and the healthy air of free un-standardized thought, the kind that is not bound by paper and number two pencils.

I tried to explain Learning to you, why it mattered, why it was not synonymous with stolid buildings and an adult talking at the front of the room, with things that make you look in the mirror and see the invisible ink of failure scrawled finely across your forehead. You, in turn, explained Teaching to me, although you used no words. And in that one infinitesimal moment, the dike broke and the Irish voice quieted and the bold eyes grew wet, wetter still when they saw what pooled in my own. 

You, child, you feel like you are my own. 

I do not want to say goodbye.