The day after Labor Day, and this morning on my walk I took the street by the local school (for years I've avoided it--citing noise as my excuse). Lunch pails banged against summertime bruised knees, and girls with bows in their hair posed with backpacks in front of entrances. I rubbed my belly, hoping not to look insane but instead expectant.
In a few hours, I'll be back in my own classroom. I'll be sipping my big ole tea and trying to get everyone's names right from the beginning. I'll probably wave my arms in the air and barely refrain from standing on the chair and shouting. There's something I love so much about teaching. It makes me feel alive and aware and free, and it gives me the liberty to portray my passion for writing in a way that I don't always feel comfortable doing in the ordinary world.
Heck, maybe it's the captive audience, or maybe it's because they're only eighteen or nineteen, or maybe I feel validated because I'm actually getting paid. Maybe it's nothing more than the slight sugar high from the single square of dark chocolate I eat before entering the room. Whatever it is, I love the feeling. I'm a sucker for the first day of school. It makes me giddy and full of hope; it makes me spit-shine my shoes and put cucumbers on my eyes and sing little songs.
Today's assignment: In a single beautifully constructed sentence tell us what you did this summer. Have at it. If they can do it, you can do it.