First classroom. I’m a young twenty-something, newly hired teaching assistant at Pomona Middle School. Our teacher presents the class assignment. A few moments later, a pleasantly plump 8th grader looks at me and asks, “What to do?”
as though
it never happened
cuckoo cry
Next classroom. The fire-rated door of room 452B closes. Fifteen quiet, serious-looking ninth-graders look up at their teacher. Their first-year, teacher, working his first day as a teacher.
Ever.
after the rain
reflecting off a skylight
afternoon sun
So many other classrooms through the years. The one in Tappan Zee High School, where I walked in late to my first team-teaching class. The other one in Columbus High School, where I returned to NYC schools after a year in the suburbs. & that one at Astor, where I team-taught Algebra for the first time in years.
Memorial Day
a neighbor’s dog
barks twice
The legions of faces that paraded in and out of the scores of classrooms in which I taught for over thirty years. The kaleidoscopic whirlwind of memories, associated with them all.
All to become a sea of memory in twenty-two more work days.
parting clouds
a fitting afternoon
for remembrance
I’m hosting Haibun Monday over at dVerse, where we write about remembrance.
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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