Andrew Dawes

When I walk in after my lunch break, it's as though a year has passed. Though little has physically changed, I barely recognize the spirit of the place. There's a moment of awkward scrutiny, as everyone scrambles to remember those by-gone relationships from what must seem like remote antiquity. Then, the kids burst out in simultaneous recognition and joy, consummating our long-anticipated (but never hoped for) reunion. Deniesha outwardly rebukes me by silently and forcefully cleaning every available surface. She doesn't look up as the kids run to me one by one to hug my legs or hang from my waist. Her quick, angry swipes with the slopping rag accuse me of absconding, like a binge-partying father who only sneaks back home, head held deceptively low, to panhandle just enough from his own family's mouth for one more round of drinking and debauchery. I know I'm expected to feel some sense of shame or regret, but I can tell that, despite her outward demeanor, Deniesha is secretly glad to see me. After all, she can now leave the classroom's perpetual chaos to go "plan" in the soft-cushioned chair by the lobby's water cooler.