Her face is turned toward the window, nestled on a deep feather pillow.  Long dark lashes flutter as I kiss her cheek, brushing back soft strands of hair from her forehead.  It is dark out, yet she will rise and greet another day.

His face is face up, eyes closed, arms thrown back over his head in the same position as when he slept as an infant.  I reach down to kiss the sweet spot between his jaw and neck, and he groans and pulls the covers tighter.  It is dark out, yet he will rise and greet another day.

Sleepily she pads downstairs, honey colored hair still in a messy braid.  Too early to eat, she sips cold orange juice as she pulls on long underwear and ski socks.  It is dark out, yet she will go and meet another day.

Groggily he pulls on his fuzzy black and white skull patterned bathrobe and gulps down fresh water.  He trods down the stairs, too full of chatter for such an early start.  It is dark out, yet he will go and meet another day.

She dresses quickly yet deliberately.  No worries about appearances, she thinks only of the snow that awaits her.  It is cold out, yet she will be brave and face another day.

He pulls on his layers, sweet grapefruit juice dribbling down his chin.  Thinking only of the countdown to Christmas, he hugs me in anticipation.  It is cold out, yet he will be brave and face another day.

Methodically she unscrews her ski helmet face bar in the dark lodge, preparing for the morning workout ahead of her.  Layer upon layer upon layer she bundles up and heads towards the lift, tousled braid whipping in the wind.  It is dawn out, and she gets to have another day.

Slowly he prepares for the snow, insisting on doing it alone.  His fuzzy brown head disappears beneath a royal blue helmet and goggles, contrasting the lime green and black of his jacket.  We kiss goodbye, my assurance I will be waiting for him when he returns.  It is dawn out, and he gets to have another day.

Yet as I sit by the window watching the sun crest the snow-covered hills, I cry for the mother and child who are apart, who will never feel their arms around each other again, and who cannot brush away each other’s tears.

It is bright out, and I get to have another day.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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His laugh, low and husky, always makes me smile.  Not a man to rush, he enjoys the moments of his life, no matter how big or small.  ‘Things have a way of working themselves out,” he always tells me.

For a little northern California girl, Los Angeles is a city of magic.  PSA shuttles me to Burbank during the summer, never disappointing my expectations.  The burgundy Buick feels slow and safe, just what a small granddaughter needs to feel welcomed in the big city.  The short drive to Sherman Oaks holds the anticipation of Christmas morning at the end of the road.  Down one endless avenue to the next, right up to the little yellow house.  His strong hand reaches for mine across the beige upholstery.

The radio in the front bedroom quietly broadcasts the latest news as Nanook the Husky softly nuzzles my welcome.  Push up pops appear from the freezer.  The bullfighter still graces the bedroom wall.  Joan of Arc gazes from her perch.  The bean bag offers a nest to sink into.

He slows down with time, his feet shuffling down the street and heavy on the pedal.  My turn to drive now.  Eyeglasses no longer slip from their case tucked into his breast pocket.  My turn to read aloud the news.  Clarence Thomas on the front page evokes his sense of morality, long honed through years in the legal profession.  His hands strong, skin thin, grasp mine gently across the kitchen table.  I settle into the moss green upholstery, trying to plant myself in the moments I know are few to come.  The clock talks to him now, announcing the loss of minutes left to spend together.  “Go, Abuela, I’ll stay here,”  I urge, clamoring for another precious moment.

We arrive in the darkness.  More stoic unsettled, she draws the long silver Cartagena scissors to tenderly snip a lock of his hair.  So still.  The tears flow silently, slowly.

His hands clasp in tranquility.  I slump to his side, tenderly kiss his cheek.  No rush now. He has enjoyed the moments of his life.  I savor this last one we spend together.  Somehow, I know things have a way of working themselves out.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Where I went to high school

The 25 mile commute each day from the bubble of a community I grew up in took me from a place where crime wasn’t something we worried about. We hardly ever locked our doors, and if we broke curfew (or any other teenage rule) someone always saw us and informed our parents.  We knew everyone at school, and there was no escaping a reputation that siblings had left behind.  We went to school from kindergarten through graduation among children we played in sandboxes with-some might have called it utopia.  Until one day…

May 4, 1983:

Thong Hy Huynh was a new kid in town.  His family had recently immigrated from Vietnam, hoping for a better life. He was quiet-in fact, so quiet that I never even met him. I never knew his name until the day he was killed on campus.

On that day, life in our idyllic little town changed forever.  One minute we were walking to Home Ec during our senior year, preparing for another period of delightful cooking instruction.  The next minute, total chaos erupted just around the corner from our classroom.  People were screaming and a huge crowd hovered near the art room.  For a moment I thought it must be just another fight-not that fighting was an everyday occurrence.  But the teacher’s grave expressions and composed panic told me this was more-much more.

Thong was different.  He didn’t speak English fluently, and had seen horrors in his native country we can only imagine.  At that moment on May 4, he was defending a friend who was being tormented by a red haired, light skinned bully.  Words were exchanged, and before anyone knew it Thong was down, stabbed and bleeding to death.

Eight years after his death, I remember what I felt when I began teaching in my new community.  I felt different.  I was out of my comfort zone.  I felt scared and insecure.  But after a few weeks, I felt myself relaxing. I felt the love and trust of my students and their parents as they realized my care was genuine, and my passion for teaching began to override my fears of being ‘different’.

I don’t think it was until then, years after Thong died, that I really realized what Maya Angelou was saying.  And now, when my daughter walks past his memorial plaque at the high school I hope she understands.  Actually, I know she understands.  Because what I learned from Thong and my students is a part of me, and the message flows from my heart and actions into my children at home and at school.  We ARE more alike than we know, and being different is what makes life such a beautiful experience.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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