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Lonna D. Kingsbury

of

Milford, OH, US

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Mrs. Anderson

by

Lonna D. Kingsbury

Watching through the panel, the other children safe, she shunned their childhood circle. Outside, she knew rebellion, and finally pressed it past that last grasped lone alternative - she’d not be coming back. Evading tearful tidings, engrossed by every truth - she coveted her favorite class, her passion, as she moved. Was she spewing poetry, with hand in air, no rest, in retrospect, escaping, praying they’d be blessed? Or was she mixing metaphors, holding quick her breath with steadfast self-deception that one soul would not rest in following the masters’ paths nearer to the grail or know a light beseeching: follow now the trail. Know truths beyond mere mortal acts, priceless times of search. Know every deemed imaginable nurturing of worth. She’d taught her well, this favorite, and here she stood aloof, a hood in plastic leather-look, more cold than feeling cool. She’d miss her she decided, while holding back the tears, allegories set aside, standing back to peer. Pre-grieving selfless goodness - she never raised her eyes, just strode in as class dismissed - fast in hard disguise. Denying any problem, pretending to be high, she fought to keep the parting flip, she signed the slip and cried.