tributes

Two Mondays ago M's stepdad came into school early. I was coming back from copying stuff in the staff lounge. He hurried toward me, intense, caught me a bit off guard, and said "I just wanted to tell you that M's dad is dead."
"Oh my God. What happened?"
I think about M, my second grade girl, sweet as pie and how often she talked about her dad. I just helped her edit a letter she'd written to him a few days before.
"We don't know. But M doesn't know yet."
Oh, great. Are you kidding?

So all morning I had this secret knowledge that M's life was completely changed and she didn't know yet, but I did. There was a bomb waiting to go off when she went home and I had to act like I didn't know.

Mom and stepdad picked her up early. Mom said she wasn't sure M would be in the next day, but she was. My para, who somehow finds out about everything, told me she'd heard it was a suicide.

At one point that next morning I sat with M.
"I am so sorry, M. I'm so sorry this happened."
"The thing I don't understand Ms Lowe, is that he did it to himself."

Wow. Whoa. What do I say now?

M has been doing remarkably well the past couple weeks, despite. She told me all about the funeral and putting roses on her dad, and how her uncle kissed him.

It occured to me over the weekend that she will forget, over the years, the little things.

"Maya." I approached her today. "I was thinking that all of the memories you have of your dad - the stories you've told me, the stories you know - you should write them down so that you never forget. When you're older you can go back and read your memories so you can keep him alive with you."

She didn't seem too keen on the idea, until she said "Yeah. Ms Lowe we can do it together. You can write about your gramma."

(My class all knows that I was out for two weeks in October to be with my dying Gramma Doe).

I was thinking about all the lessons I needed to give, but I said okay, let me get my book. I got my journal out of my pocketbook and she gave me a pencil. I read out loud as I wrote.

"My gramma drank more tea than anyone I know. She loved tea. She liked Decaf Irish breakfast tea from Trader Joes and when they stopped making it, she was sad. She always had something sweet with her tea. She loved orange and pinapple cake from shop and stop, but her favorite was a danish from the Lindencrest Diner."

That was about as far as I got when Maya skipped away with her own journal.

She came back an hour later and showed me two pages of handwritten single spaced writing that she read to me.

She wrote about her dad and she making spitballs at McDonalds and how whenever they went there he would buy her anything she wanted. She wrote about how when he woke up in the morning he would look in a mirror and say hey, handsome man! and she would say daddy, you are handsome. She wrote that she would tell him I love you sooo much and he would say I love you more. She wrote about camping and how much her dad exercised and had big muscles.

Then she surprised me. "Can I read it to the class at the gathering?"

"Um, yeah! Sure!"

So she did. And the children were attentive. And when she finished, she leaned her head against me. I said "Does anyone have any comments?"
Hands raised.
M pointed at children to comment.

"That was beautiful," one child said. I nearly floated.

"Do you wish you could see your dad again?" Oh, no. But Maya just nodded.

"That made me think of my grandpa. he died too."

"I think your dad is around you now like an angel." Wow.

This went on for a few minutes and we still had a little time before we had to leave for lunch.

"I have an idea," I said. "Let's have a moment of silence. A moment of silence is a time to honor someone, like M's dad. We'll just be quiet for a minute, bow our heads and think about her dad, and think about M and send her lots of love."

"Ready? Go."

And the class fell silent. And we could hear all the voices and activity in the classrooms around ours, but my kids were silent, their heads bowed, and I looked at them all so proud, so honored to be with them, and my chest filled with the memory of M's dad, and it filled with M herself, but most of all it filled and nearly overflowed with love, so much love, and how fragile and strong it can be all at once.