Charles Dickens and a Screeching Sholandric

There are exactly six days of school left. Six. And then it's over, my first year . . . no fanfare, no meaningful pinpoint in time, no big to-do. I usually finish these things, the milestones, with something in my hand or on a piece of paper giving me a pat on the back. I guess I have some of those this year, but in the end, my eyes might be too tired to read them and my hands too tired to hold them. The eyes and voices of my fellow teachers whisper that they too feel it--pure exhaustion. This is an empty time of year . . . the purpose in it all seems to have flown away. Discontent reigns inexplicably in the middle of unaccountability.

Two days ago, a girl in my class made me a little notebook paper poster of my name, along with the comments that I was "the coolest" and her "favorite teacher." Then yesterday I picked another girl over her to replace me in our Teacher for the Day stunt. The compensation hug and "It was a really difficult decision" were hollow.

Running a marathon: accomplishing something, then at the end, realizing that what you've just focused all your energies on is about to end itself, be over, and that you have somewhat destroyed yourself in pursuing it.