Quiet Hallways

I hate getting those phone calls.   Last Thursday night, I got a call that one of my fellow faculty members had died in a car accident that afternoon.   I couldn't sleep that night for thinking about her little one-year-old boy and my students (big babies as I call them).   But I also couldn't get my own children out of my mind.   And I was dreading going to school on Friday because one of the sounds I hate hearing is a quiet hallway.   That sounds odd, I know, but for those of us who work at a high school, it means something.   The hallway is a place where kids laugh and talk and hug and high-five.   To enter the school and the hallway to be quiet means something is terribly wrong.   It means my big babies' hearts are breaking.   And I hate it.  

I also couldn't stop thinking about my own children.   As I thought about the one-year-old, I couldn't help but think that he would never know her.  He won't have memories of her.   He will only know the stories that other people tell him.  And while I am sure they will tell him that his mommy loved him, he won't know that first-hand.   So I thought of my own kids.   If something happened to me, would they know I loved them?   Would they know that they made my world go 'round?   Friday morning I stopped Jillian and said, "You know I love you, right?   More than you will ever know, right?"   She just thinks I am crazy, so she said, "Yes," and went on about her way.  

Tomorrow we will return to school and it will be "normal" for most of us.   We'll get back to our regular routine.   But there will be students sitting in class without their teacher.   So if you think about it, please say a little prayer for the students who will still have to cope with this loss as they make their way down the not-so-quiet hallways tomorrow.