It's supposed to snow this week. (PB)

Winter. 

 

That is the answer I immediately used to give when posed the question, "What season do you like better, winter or summer?"  I mean, it's a complete no-brainer.  Who doesn't love that first snowfall, the sky's fluffy gray coating allowing only a few small peeks from the blue blanket underneath.  You're in math class, slowly drudging through the day because you woke up late and forgot your breakfast, and consequently, your happy mood.  Blankly staring at your teacher's unzipped fly, your ears perk up suddenly when you hear, "Is it snowing?" 

 

Forgetting your empty stomach, you whip your head so fast you get a neck cramp towards the nearest window.  There, your eyes are greeted with the most wonderful sight.  The first snow.  Your illuminated pupils carefully trace every dainty little fluff to the ground as your soul sinks into a warm, fuzzy state.  It's like your whole body is tingling with the excitement that this event entails.  Hot chocolate.  Sweaters.  Triple blankets.  Sled riding.  Your teacher has shut the blinds to curb the excitement and get back to the lesson, but you are long gone; you know you will only be thinking about Christmas and snow days for the rest of the period. 

 

At the time, summer seemed like a sin.  Reeking of chlorine, during that horrid period I would drag my butt through the side door, my hair turned a ghastly green.  I would always be thirsty, drinking lemonade by the gallons.  Taking a comfortably warm shower was out of the question, and I would be forced to hop in and out of the biting cold blast of water.  My hairy little girl legs were littered with bug bites and I would pick off the scabs for fun.  I didn't live by anyone my age, so I had to entertain myself with my sprinkler and my scabs.  It was not cool. 

 

But now, that's all changed. 

 

Instead of cozy mittens or evergreens, I keep going back to those glorious summer months that I used to dread.  The absolutely holy feeling of my skin being basked in an inviting glow of the friendly sun.  Laying in a green bed of enjoyably prickly grass, sniffing the fresh smell of clean air.  Keeping my window wide open at night and sprawling on top of a thin sheet, my body shimmering with the heat and my hair placed like a halo above my head. 

 

And I think of how loooonnggg this winter will be.  Then I grab myself a cup of tea to make myself feel cool and sit by the window waiting for that first snowflake.

Lucky ( PB )

"Oh my God.  Are you serious?  This is a joke." 

"I quit.  Kill me now." 

"There is no way.  I'm not doing this!" 

"LSJDKFUGHGHUHHGH." 

  

We've all been there.  Minding your own business, you toil and sweat through the school day, taking text after long, boring text, worksheets, yada yada yada.  And then it happens. 

 "Hey guys, settle down.  Hey!  So in order to really get you kids to understand this topic on a deeper level, I'm decided to assign a 

  

  

P      R      O        J           E              C                   T              ." 

  

  

Alarms immediately begin to siren, and your vision is tainted with the color red.  Everyone around you commences to unhinge their jaws and scream in a language that's definitely not English, but you somehow understand.  Every desk in the classroom is flipped over with a sudden shattering screech as a marker with no master scribbles on the whiteboard in shaky print, 'YOU WILL PAY'. 

 

Okay.  So maybe that's a bit over the top, but you get the point.  No one likes a project.  No one.  I don't.  You certainly don't.  The teacher that has to grade them doesn't.  We can all agree, they kinda suck.  But I've begun to realize that maybe it's not the project that sucks.  Maybe it's us. 

 

 

Do you know how many kids in the world don't get an education? 101 million.  Think about that.  101 million children don't have access to a better life.  101 million children won't have a shot at their dreams.  101 million children will have a hard time just surviving.  101 million children dream of rows of sharpened yellow pencils and the sweet crisp feeling of a fresh ream of lined paper.  While scrubbing their master's dirty plates, their eyes are closed, wondering at the beautiful chant of children reciting their lessons.  Hiding under the shroud covering their mouth, nose, eyes, they can imagine the pleated folds of a just washed uniform.  Lying on the dirt floor, they're praying to whatever God will listen to them to just help them get to school. 

 

So, I think about those 101 million children.  I think about that project.  Then I shut my mouth and do the best project that my teacher has or ever will see because I owe it to those kids. 
 

We all owe it to them.