“When my husband died”—Jess could hardly imagine Mrs. Myers ever having had a husband—
“people kept telling me not to cry, kept trying to make me forget.”
Mrs. Myers loving, mourning. How could you picture it?
“But I didn’t want to forget.” She took her handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose.
“Excuse me,” she said. “This morning when I came in, someone had already taken out her desk.”
She stopped and blew her nose again. “It—it—we—I never had such a student. In all my years of teaching. I shall always be grateful—”
He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to unsay all the things he had said about her—even unsay the things Leslie had said.
Lord, don’t let her ever find out. “So—I realize. If it’s hard for me, how much harder it must be for you. Let’s try to help each other, shall we?”
“Yes’m.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Maybe some day when he was grown, he would write her a letter and tell her that Leslie Burke had thought she was a great teacher or something.
Leslie wouldn’t mind. Sometimes like the Barbie doll you need to give people something that’s for them,
not just something that makes you feel good giving it.
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