Bright, spotless classrooms all decked out in their best Grade-School, Open-House finery. Seasonal bulletin boards festooned with construction-paper autumn leaves, Alphabet letters and classroom artistry. I am four-years old clinging to the hem of my mother's skirt. And I'm walking through a constantly morphing canyon created by the long-legged, mountainous parents crowding the room. Mom is making pleasant small talk with other adults but I pay no attention. I occasionally see another child like me appear and disappear in the undulating vertical waves created by trousered and skirted adult legs.
I am not really curious to know about this thing called school that my older siblings come to every day. My sweater collar is so itchy. I hated the feel of it when Mom pulled it over my face to get me ready to attend tonight's event. I release my grip momentarily on Mom's skirt to use both hands to stretch the collar away from my skin. A little later I notice we are making our way out to the hall and into another classroom.
More talking. Blah blah blah. But something sounds different. I look up. The woman looking down on me is not my mother. Kind as her face might be, she's a strange lady! Frantically, I look around! My Mom is nowhere! I look to the door but before my eyes can drench themselves in tears and without having to make my face contorted into a cry, Mom appears in the doorway and sees me. I run to her. She and the lady exchange knowing smiles and gentle laughter.
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