Teacher Ramonna Monologue

As I remember, Mother is sitting on my side of the bed, her face illuminated by the candle’s dim glow. She is singing the lullaby we both know so well, the smooth words rolling off her tongue, melding like honey upon our eager ears. Her fingers sweep gently over us. As the breathing in the room calms, Mother blows out the flame, leaving the room in a cool darkness. I am usually asleep before she eases herself out and exits the room quietly.

You hate me for being selfish with Mother's attention, but you have no idea.

Sometimes, however, I am still awake, but you are fast asleep, your breathing calm and steady. You, you always remind me of sunshine. And then, though you may not know this, I would wrap my arms around your sleeping form. You always smell like

But I do.

I like to repaint the picture of us going down the path to school in spring. You love to grasp my hand tightly, as though the freshly-cut grass and the trees seem to scare you. We are chattering excitedly about Teacher Ramona, who always saves extra cookies for us when we are hungry. Sometimes, you stop along the way to pick the lovely white flowers that grow along the road. And then you blow the dandelion seeds at me, your high giggle like the gentle swishing of a hummingbird’s wings.

You only know this memory on the surface, but do you recall what I recall?

Sometimes, I remember you sitting on the familiar big rock, kicking off your black polished shoes and complaining that your feet hurt. At times like this, although you probably don’t remember, to urge you on, I offer to carry your bag for you, while you skip merrily in front of me. Sometimes, all the way to school, I think about the pain in my feet from those stiff shiny shoes. At school, I walk you to your class, because you're afraid you can't find your seat alone, before trudging across the block to mine. And all day, what dominates my thoughts is the ache in my shoulders that don't go away for a long