21 Waiting
Monday through Friday,
I walk into a middle school to set up for work,
I run an after school program.
I wait and watch, before my program starts,
The liveliness of the raucous school dismissal.
Students who are ready for home.
Over the music blaring in my headphones,
I hear the screaming and laughter
That escapes each kid,
Running past me down the stairs,
Around the hall,
Their backpacks like capes,
Brushing against my hip,
“Be careful,” I say,
“Sorry, miss,” they yell in response.
Outside the school entrance,
Their families are waiting.
Moms and dads,
Sisters and brothers,
All of them watching for and waiting to hug their
Sisters and brothers,
Their daughters and sons,
Their babies.
Tuesday, May 24th: 19 children, 2 teachers killed.
There are 21 families
Forced to wait forever.
Twenty-one sets of moms and dads,
Sisters and brothers,
Who will ask,
Did I hug them this morning?
Did I say, “Be careful?”
Did I say, “I love you?”
Wednesday, May 25th:
I will walk into my school,
Without my headphones on,
And wonder,
What did those children sound like?
Were they once just as excited to get out of school?
How did they laugh?
How did they play?
Whose arms were they running to?
In my line of work,
My colleagues and I,
We often lament after a long day,
I am tired.
Our educator brains and our teacher voices,
Become exhausted.
But on this Wednesday mourning,
I find myself voicing that same lamentation:
I am tired.
Tired of waiting and watching
Careless leaders,
Who have been waiting and watching,
For what?
How many more lost — taken voices
Will it take?
Twenty-one families forced to wait forever.
And a slew of cowards sitting in Congress,
Who are okay with that waiting.
Twenty-one left to wait forever.
America, when will we be done just
Waiting and watching?
