An Echo Garden

The bell rings.

Students rush from their classrooms,

All uniform in their differences.

I stand out among them.

They are pristine,

I'm filthy

I walk bare foot,dirt smeared all over me,twigs in my hair.

One girl whispers "Is she lost?"

I'm not lost though.

I know exactly where I'm going.

Left corridor, five steps forward,three steps to the right.

Room 115 is exactly the way I remember it.

Billie Holiday still sings .

(I'll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new)

A battered copy of Stephan King's The Stand still rests on a book shelf.

(People who try hard to do the right thing always seem mad)

The F.D.R poster hasn't moved an inch.

(The only thing we have to fear is fear itself)

I'm home.

But something is different.

There are vines creeping all along the walls.

Trees and blossoms sprout from every corner.

I climb through branches looking for the source.

And I find it.

It's a letter.

Flowers have been cut out and glued around the words,

A hasty attempt to make the truth more pretty.

It's my letter

It's still here.

And he's still here.

My teenage self's version of a hero.

He's different too.

The plants from my letter have crawled onto him.

But I notice there is greenery from other places as well.

I guess even teachers need to learn.

"Welcome back,Kid."

He says like nothing's changed.

"I'm proud of you."

"Why?"

I ask him,gesturing to the mud all over me.

"I'm dirty."

"No" he says and grabs my hand

For the first time, I notice buds poking out of the dirt that cakes my skin.

The beginning of flowers

that will one day surround

thanks you's to teachers for

giving you a home.

"You're growing"