A Thank You

"Do they even work?" she asks as I scribble out a line of stubborn black ink that looks faded even though it's new, or new to me, if not the Celexa rep who left dozens of pens behind in the laundry.

I smile and shrug at her contribution to my customary stash;I don't care that she didn't get to go buy pencils as she intended. I tease that each of her family stories begins, inevitably, "We were gonna. . . ." When it matters, she always does. And that is why my gift is not the pens, or the teacher-y cup in which I'll store them until they disappear. My gift is the sentences she added under, "Thanks for Everything," on the card.

"I'd like to thank you," she wrote, in the hand I'll always recognize, "for all the encouragement, guidance, patience, and understanding you have shown me throughout my school years. Thank you for teaching me the importance of knowledge and allowing me to be in your class all these six years." I choke up a little as I read it, and again now as I type for reasons both obvious and obscure. I blink it back with gratitude that she knew what I was trying to do, and let me.