Learning Time

I remember childhood’s summer,
hot days flowing
into cooler cicada evenings,
unmarked by names
of days or even months.
Just ‘wadda ya wanna do now?’
My brother and I
ride our bikes
fast down the hill,
or games of chase and tag,
cold popsicles dripping
on a scalding afternoon,
climb high in a tree,
but don’t look down,
run through the sprinkler
or spin until we fall down
in the cool grass.
Barefoot,
we run fast across the hot tar street
to our friend’s yard
where we’re digging a hole
all the way to China.
After dark,
there are lightening bugs to catch,
scary ghost hiding games
in the neighborhood.

At last,
Mom summons us
in for the night.
We trudge home and into the bath,
soaking away the sweat and grime
of our play.
Cool pajamas and cotton sheets,
open bedroom window.
I can see
the tiny sparkles of light,
the moths and June bugs
fluttering against the screen,
soft voices,
night sounds singing me to sleep.
On and on,
endless as breathing.

Until one day someone says,
“Two more weeks till school starts.”
The words cut through my dreams
like a knife
and suddenly
the days of summer are numbered
as we count backward.
There is a sinking in my stomach,
a racing in my mind.
Have I forgotten how to read?
Will my teacher be mean?
Can I remember all the rules?
And all the other unnameable fears.

In bed that night I call to Mom
and tell her why I cannot sleep.
“You’re such a worry wart,”
she laughs.
“Tomorrow,” she says,
“We’ll go school shopping.”
Like a band aid on a wound,
that makes everything better
for a while.
New socks,
underwear and shoes,
folders,
zippered pencil case,
and a ruler
to measure the days.

I organize them over and over.
I open the crayons
to smell their waxy odor,
to see their perfect tips.

On the last day of summer,
I am all day
aware of endings.
Mom calls us inside
way before dark.
She scrubs hard that night,
trims my bangs short.
I lie in bed and listen to the cicadas
calling good-bye.

I look over at my
freshly ironed uniform and blouse
standing at attention
on the hanger.
The white knee socks,
brown leather shoes
sit below them.
Every detail in order.

I wake early and dress
the way I’d practiced in my head
the night before.
I carry the hairbrush to Mom
and stand
ready for my tight braids.
As we walk out the door
she says,
“Turn around,
I want to take your picture.”
We smile impatiently
because the other kids are waiting.

Then off we march
and I am careful not to step
on any cracks
today.

By Maria Brady-Smith