By Sara Kandler
I shift the leather rolling bag
to my other arm before hoisting it up the stairs
to the teacher’s room
My fifty-something colleague passes
lowers her chin
while raising her darkened eyebrows
above her glasses
serious green eyes knowing
Somehow they all know why I missed last week
And some know why I’m back so soon
To never miss a beat
and not submit to doom
the self-blame
the shame
the I knew I shouldn’t have been so stressed
or the now I’m becoming so insane
To say I beat it with a smile
and a goody bag of rouge sticks
feels like a giant hokey pink thumbs up
No — my wing is clipped and
I’m not singing
The whirring wheels of my rolling bag
announce my arrival and
I roll with the punches
down every hallway
Wishing for my very own punching bag
Not recognizing myself
Who used to feel like one of the kids
Now seeing me in their eyes
Another fifty-something
Shifting the weight to her stronger side
And taking a breath
Before taking the stairs.
Good to see you, she says.
Thanks. It’s good to be back.