Do the thing. Say the words. Master the disaster. Even though it's still a disaster.
Point to the cracks. Point to the fragility. Let them see that that's what makes it beautiful and human and read.
The joking voice. The gesture I love.
All there in that classroom, moving me along.
Last night, when I was waiting any moment to hear that my father was gone, I couldn't imagine being in that classroom the next morning, much less to talk about that poem.
But he made it through the night.
Who knows what comes next?
But whatever it is, the classroom...and language...and art...and teaching will be there. And he will be there, too.
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