stick

I sit in the abandoned classroom, accompanied and hassled by the squad of flies, diving in, alighting on my neck and flitting away, just enough nuisance to distract.

There’s so many at this time of year

Where do they all come from?

I hear a couple voices down the way and peek at the clock

they’re coming back already?

With a start, I jump up, sneak out of the classroom, and await the returning kids

they trail in at different times, back from their range of world language classes.

There’s great energy here. Plenty of smiles, they’ve had fun.

And the overarching mood is gratitude to be back in school.

I welcome each child back with an elbow bump and reminder

back to your nonfiction text – looking for important details

right back to it

When I notice the folded paper on the shoe rack

What is that?

I can be a bit fastidious (at times, that is), keeping the area in and around the class tidy is generally a priority for me.

So I step over and thoughtlessly reach down to pick it up, and find my fingers sticking to the paper.

I pull my hand away and finally look down.

And that’s when I realize I have put my hands down, firmly, onto a folded piece of fly paper

but this is, cruelly, not a fresh piece

It’s loaded, squished nibblies, and guts. Fly guts. Everywhere.

And now, all over my fingers.

I gasp, the kids spot my mistake, and groan.

I throw the paper into the trash, rush into the bathroom, and wash my hands

doing my best to keep my lunch down.