Time is a guard

A channel is basic, everyday.

Just a.

You know what it looks like?

Anything? Or all gone?

The class nods in understanding, agreement, except for 1, who feels contempt.

Dixie is last to understand.

The class is organized by color; special edition crayola colors.

Understanding appears as a sort of pinkish white, while agreement and contempt are both earth tones.

Pain is not mentioned, at least not in the way contempt is.

It is not understood.

Pain sits in the corner, a desk set up with #2 pencils. The pencils have her name Dixie carved into the wood. The others want her pencils, but she deals in things they aren’t able to understand.

Pain reads ahead.

There isn’t enough room for Pain in this house, so she cannot stretch out. Her limbs are cramped and weak. It’s been years and years since she stretched, and the pain in her body has settled. She has already asked for help, we have already told her “no.”

Our teacher is Sacrifice. We’ve put her to the test. She teaches us arithmetic, wears vibrant colors, and sells sea shells on the sea shore.

Her hair is curly, half tied up in a knot. The hairs left out, hanging down and around, past her ears, down through her shoulders, right to her hips.

Sacrifice can feel angry too.

There’s a simplicity to an elementary school classroom right at midday.

Everyone is there, everyone is hungry, and the sun is slanting and bleeding in just the right way. Everyone is there, but no one is focused.

Time is the guard that waits outside of the door, keeping the class in progress— off at 11:30, back at 12:30.