Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Last Saturday

     I slowly headed in, dragging myself into the building to sign the book.  The black ink flowed smoothly across the page.  Standing with the other people there, I pulled my Kleenex from hand to hand, stretching it as far as I could without ripping it as I kept hold of the papers.  Voices sounded around me; some talking softly, others too loud in this quiet place.
     We moved along slowly.  Me, dreading my arrival at my destination.  Was I doing the right thing?  Was this the right time?  Questions chased each other around in my mind.
     My heels felt strange on my feet.  It was a beautiful Saturday evening and I only wore them to church or to special occasions.  I really did not want to take another step forward.
     It was finally my turn.  I reached the platform.  So many things hit me at once--the large screen displaying pictures of a little boy with blue icing covering most of his face then looping to another picture of this same little boy but a little older, portraits of a smiling young man out by the ocean with the waves tumbling to shore in the background, and two weary people, Gina and Burt, standing beside a small, brown casket with a beautiful spray of twelve perfect white roses on top.
     " I'm so sorry," I whispered through a throat suddenly closing up with tears.
     Gina lifted her arms and placed them around me.  "Thank you for coming.  What I wouldn't give to be walking him into your classroom again, Ms. Cress."  I squeezed her tight and moved back a little.
     "I brought this for you.  I thought you might like to have it." I handed over the rough draft and memoir that Josh had handwritten in October.  She took the sheets of paper and quickly hugged them to her; tears rolling down both her cheeks.
     Burt, Josh's dad, looked at the papers filled with some of the last words Josh was able to write on his own. His arm came around me on one side and Gina's arm came around on the other.
     "Thank you so much,"  Josh's parents quietly said and smiled.
     After one last quick hug, I moved across the platform and out through the crowd.  I looked down to see my Kleenex tattered and crumpled in my tight fist.  I relaxed my hand.  I think I did the right thing.


This post is dedicated to the memory of my student, Josh, who lost his battle with cancer on Wednesday, April 25, 2012.  He was 12 years old.  I wrote about Josh earlier in the March SOLSC.

10 comments:

  1. I am so sorry for your loss. Your story is beautifully written. You write showing your feeling, not just telling me. I was dreading what the story was about.
    dragging myself into the building, the kleenex, soft voices.
    I see why this post took you a long time to write.
    It was worth the wait, very sensitive and caring.

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    1. Thank you. I had a tough time writing about this because it is still so fresh on my mind, but perhaps that is the best time to write. I appreciate your comment very much.

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  2. I am so sorry for your loss, Tracy. This is one of the hardest things in the world, I think. It is so hard to know what to do in this situation, but it sounds like your gift of his words will be cherished forever.

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    1. Thanks, Deb. It has been hard for the adults and kids alike to lose him.

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  3. So touching and thoughtful. I am sure his parents are so grateful that you "did the right thing." Your feelings and emotions came through so clearly.

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    1. Thank you, Betsy. His parents are wonderful people and he was a special young man who is already greatly missed.

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  4. I too am so sorry for your loss. I remember getting a lump in my throat as you wrote about Josh back in March. Praying and writing may help you and his classmates honor his memory and the imprint his life had on all of you.

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    1. Thank you, Anita. He was a very special little guy. I have prayed throughout his illness and will continue to do so for his family and for my students who were close to him. We will also continue to try to find the words to write. :)

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  5. Oh, wow. So touching. You got me gripping my hands tightly. Then the goosebumps of a moment told so clearly. I could picture every move, every breath, every tear. I am so sorry for the loss of Josh. Thank you for taking the time to capture this moment. I hope, in time, it will help you heal and remember. What a special gift for his parents.

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    1. Thank you, Michelle. It was probably one of the hardest things I've had to write, but at the same time one of the most important to save.

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