He was always there. Ready to play Candyland with grandma, Zach, and I. Ready to say fe fi fo fum as we played hide and seek. He was prepared to pick out A Christmas Story to watch every year without fail as the tree glistened in the corner of the dark room, until one day when he wasn’t. 

I knew it was happening – I knew he was dying. My parents don’t keep secrets from Zach and me because they’re aware we know better, even when I was nine. The car ride was very quiet the day that Mom and Dad took us to visit him for the last time. I walked in the doors of the house that held so many memories for my family and I. Only, this time when I walked past the entryway of shoes stacked messily in the corner, to my right was not the rocking chair that he loved so much, instead there he lay. My strong, willful, could never be wrong, grandpa was lying on the white bed with the metal railing, pale and almost unrecognizable. His round glasses that always sat propped up on his nose and held his signature white mustache right beneath weren’t there. His Levi jeans and Hawaiian shirts were replaced by a white and blue checkered gown. 

Familiar faces surrounded him, my aunts, my uncles, and my grandma. However, two of my cousins were in the other living room, playing because they had gotten used to this image. My parents did not want to associate the memory I had of my grandpa with this, the stuffy room that smelled like the hospital had been brought home with him, the smiles on their faces, but their eyes telling a different story. This was the last time. I had made him a card by instruction of my mom who had been instructed by her mom, my grandma, to do so. I held the printer paper card in my right hand and waited until my grandma told me to read it to him because he couldn’t. He barely knew I was there as I spoke to him, I tried to keep my voice strong because we were supposed to keep a positive attitude. My voice broke to the point that I told him I wanted my fe fi fo fum giant back and I had to cut it short. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and that was the last thing I knew of him until the phone call on that Thursday night. I did know one thing though. Cancer sucks.

Butterfly

She always told herself she would never return, never look back. High school was a source that housed trauma and stress. The many late nights that she spent crying, all she thought was, I just have to get through… 4 more years- 3 more years- 2 more years- 1. The awkward antisocial moments that haunted her conscience only fed the fire of desire within her, any bad grades, especially in Algebra 2 honors were the gasoline.

She dreamt about her future, the white house with blue shutters, the two kids that she would get to call her own when Mr. Bart would say “What is the answer to number five?” leaving her to do nothing but stare blankly and turn more red than the stalking that said her name at Christmas. Finally, she did not dread the usually daunting twenty-four hours ahead of her, as it was the last day. Many former teachers watched her as she crossed the stage shook hands and gathered the one paper that represented the previous four torturous years. 

Suddenly it was over, but then her thoughts hit her like a double-decker bus. She could not leave all the others behind who still dreaded the 4 more years- 3 more years- 2 more years- 1. Maybe she was not made for high school, the late nights and antisocial awkward moments, but rather to help other people navigate as she needed. She had to go back, yet not as the same person. Not the little girl still sprouting into who she would be, but as the girl she had become as she gathered experiences. Although she had never considered it, she had to be a teacher and complete the transformation from a cocoon to a butterfly. She went back, not for herself, but for the versions of herself that were still there.