It is a delicate mess, really, this business of teaching.
It is a dance, a climbing of stairs, a falling down and dusting off and starting again.
It is bottled-up frustration, bubbling-over love; it is hope for the ones who pass in and out of your room.
It is unique, a moment to touch another in the whirlpool that sucks and drains and draws away,
That turns boys into men and girls into beauties even as you watch and try to tell them to stay.
It is a filling up, a letting go, a complicated twiney rhythm that emerges only on a late-June day when they already have one foot out the door.
It is an honor, a prestige, to hold in your hand--for a moment, for a month, for a year at the most--the promise and potential of the next generation.