![]() The teacher asked again, “What does your mother do?” The class snickered, and a slow blush filled my face. “My mom is going to show you what you are.” “She’s going to show how fast she can type and then give us our words to take home.” “My mom’s a secretary,” said the girl sitting next to me. More than 300 horses’ worth.”Īfter lunch, the teacher went around the room, asking who had parents coming and what they would be showing or telling. “It’s getting old, like me,” she’d say sometimes, “but it’s still got plenty of power. It had an engine called a V8, like the drink I liked. Her car was an old Mercury Cougar she’d bought years ago, before she quit her job. “Go, Mama!” I would say in my mind and wonder if she heard me. She didn’t know it, but that was her real daily goodbye to me. ![]() Then I would hear the sudden burst of sound that came when Mama stomped the floor. Unless a teacher made me move, I waited, listening until it reached the place half a mile away where the speed limit changed from 25 to 55. Her car was very loud and rumbled like a faraway storm. I’d walk away slowly so long as I could still feel her eyes on my back, but when I sensed them move and heard the car pull away, I’d stop and walk back, watching as she pulled onto the road in front of the school. ![]() She would smile a warm, slow smile and then shoo me on with a flick of her wrist. I always looked up at her, reluctant to go.īut once I was out of the car, I always turned around and waved, as if the hug and the kiss hadn’t been enough. I leaned forward to hug her, and she kissed me on the forehead. She’d agreed to come to Parent Show and Tell Day, and we had to report to the teacher what our visiting parents would be talking about. “Tell them I am going to show them what they are,” said my mother while dropping me off at primary school. The 17th century’s most famous diarist finds new life on Twitter. ![]()
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