Carole Greenfield

I meet her at the front door every weekday morning. If I don't, she won't eat. If I do, she goes with me into the cafeteria, plucks up an apple or orange, sometimes a muffin, maybe even a stick of string cheese. “Take it for snack,” I tell her. “You never know. You may get hungry later.” She keeps her arms covered no matter how hot it gets. I don't want to know what she is hiding. The first half of the year, she wore a peach-colored parka that reached her knees. The school social worker gave it to her, even though she has one that fits in her locker. Sometimes those who want most to help get it so terribly wrong.  

I never know from one hour to the next which side of her will greet me, this child of many facets, some days glinting in the sun, some days all her light obscured by the storms inside that overtake her, send her collapsing to the floor or fleeing to the girls' bathroom to hide. 
  
In my small classroom one morning, we read that dragonflies are strong fliers, despite their delicate appearance, their fairy-knit wings wrought from spiderweb tracings.  

“Do they remind you of anyone?” I ask.  

“Yes,” she whispers. “You.”  

“I was thinking the same thing, just about you,” I reply.  

We both smile just the slightest bit, avoid looking directly into the other's complicated, shining eyes. 

Carole Greenfield grew up in Colombia and lives in New England, where she teaches multilingual learners at a public elementary school. Her work has appeared in The Manifest Station, Airplane Reading, Inscape Magazine, and other publications.