Reading the signs

I can tell that it’s the first day of school just by looking in my front closet.  The pencil box is too stuffed to close and the stack of spiral notebooks overflows the shelf like a levee in New Orleans.  It won’t take long before those spirals get distributed to different kids, different subjects, different shelves and consumed.  The pencils will scatter like dandelion seeds in spring.  I’m never quite sure what happens to the pencils.  By mid-semester, they get rare.  I have to search 15 for one that’s long to wrap my hand around, add another 10 minutes if you want one that isn’t broken. 

But somehow they all return home to the pencil box in time for the new school year.  Maybe they aren’t the same pencils.  I can picture them like spiders creeping around in dark corners and under beds, hiding for months, then laying egg sacs and thousands of them suddenly spring out.  Crazy pencils. 

Let’s get this school year going.  I’ve got pencils.  Who wants to be educated?


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