You never imagined the words “kindergarten” and ”teacher” would attach themselves to your name, become a part of your identity, appear on your resume beside the unexpected year of 2010.  But you wake up one morning in Korea, draw eyeliner whiskers on your cheeks, and walk into a classroom full of pirates, vampires, and a six-year old cheerleader called Sunny.

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Who sits beside a dinosaur called Thomas.

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You’re a kindergarten teacher.  You hear a voice rising from your throat each day that says things like “Who can sit nicely?”, “Be, be QUIET!” and “hands in lap,” over and over again, above the sound of feet tapping and pencils dropping and fingers drumming pretend piano keys on wooden desks.  You’ve served pasta in Victoria.  You’ve sold real estate in Edmonton.  You’ve poured 5 a.m. cocktails in Greece and scrubbed glass-bottom boats in Israel.  You think about the future and another year of teaching.  You think about the year after that, about your life and the things that still remain.  Sunny clutches your hand in the Halloween parade and Thomas jumps on your back, his dinosaur arms circling your neck as you cross the Busan street, cat ears pointing to the sun, knowing that teacher, too, is a temporary title, a two-year moment infused with the kind of love that children exude, unfettered by past griefs, open and awake to the new afternoon, where everything possible exists and will lie waiting. 

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