Calexa

After all these years, Echoes from the Past whisper hello.

An invisible thread begins to unravel. 

The sound of a broken-down old heater bangs in my mind as I trace a crack in the floor. Don’t fall in, Jonathan. Weren’t skeletons and vampires hanging from the wall one October when my face was unlined? 

The sound of a broken-down old heater bang in my mind as I lay in bed, tracing the fine crack in my ceiling and hearing their little voices sing “O Holy Night” when the snow fell, clean and white. 

The sound of broken-down old heater bangs in my mind as I see the green polo shirts and plaid skirts holding the little voices that walk with me to church, reminding me to genuflect. I’m not Catholic. What’s genuflect? They are 11 years old, but they show me. I close my eyes. Don’t get sucked back into that void, Jonathan. 

The sound of a broken-down old heater bangs as I press my letter of resignation on my warden’s desk, who watches my every move from across the hall. Her voice is both nothingness and the boom of a Godless flatland at the same time. Her hair was curly. Her eyes are not something I allow myself to be held captive by once more. Didn’t I smile once?

The sound of a broken down old heater bangs as I place a letter in the top drawer of my desk, “To Whom It May Concern: You are getting a great group of kids.” I stare at the crack in the sidewalk as I walk through the park and hear children laughing on the swings. I hear crying as I say, “I won’t return after winter break. It has nothing to do with you. I promise.” I close my eyes and stop to steady the years.

The sound of a broken down old heater bangs in my new classroom on hair now lined with gray and heart that has opened again to a new group. I see messages scrawled on my chalkboard saying: “Mr. S, please stay.” Their words fall from my eyes, ever invisibly stained on my face. 

The sound of a broken down old heater bangs as I limp with age and illness into my new room to see a welcome message with a heart: “Mr. Saucedo” drawn on my SmartBoard. The message falls from my eyes as I smile.

 “It has nothing to do with you.” Jonathan, don’t fall down that crack in time. 

The sound of a broken-down old heater bangs in my mind as I open my Instagram feed.

 “Mr. Saucedo, you probably don’t remember me, but I was your student long ago.” 

“I know your eyes. Tell me your name.” 

“Calexa.”

I look into her wide eyes, now set in an adult face, as I look at a grid of her memories. She holds her dog, standing beside her boyfriend. Hiking. Smiling. Crotcheting. Yoga poses practicing peace, happiness, and self-love. Nature. 

The broken-down old heater stops, and a rush of words pour from my eyes to the keyboard: “I meant it. I never wanted to leave any of you. It wasn’t your fault. I always wondered how you all fared over the years. I’m proud of you. Tell me of your journey.”

It wasn’t my fault. 

All these years. 

They were okay. 

I genuflect as far as my head will allow as I hold my cane, still young but old before I willed it. Just in time. I see the chalkboard: “Mr. S. We love you.”

Finally, I breathe. I never knew I was holding it in all these years. 

An invisible thread; my noose releases me.

Mr. Saucedo is written on the SmartBoard of his 2023 classroom. A red heart and stars surround it.