I take attendance, call the roll. Each child

answers: the sad child, the loud child, the doing-

well, grief-muted, visits-the-principal-

often children.   But not the one who doesn’t 

 

hear any names called—the look on his face

blank as a sheet of copier paper, snow

storm in the Himalayas, desert where

sun can blind and throw up a mirage. Just

 

as the white noise of our classroom erases

our classroom, allows him to travel

wherever he is right now.   He is my

greatest hope for the future: he may be

 

a writer.

 

© by Paula Schulz.

Used with the author’s permission.