I watch with pleading eyes,
my hands linked and resting on the
small of my back
and my fingers are crossed, too.
Her sharp, appraising glance
flits over the paper in her hands
like a fairy;
a mystery.
She passes the paper back to me
and looks into my eyes.
“It was lovely, Emi.
I can see you have a future in poetry.”
I thank her, quietly, but I don’t
truly mean it.
And stumbling home from school that day,
the paper in my hands,
I think about my future
and imagine it as a shimmering fish
caught in a net of poetic nonsense.
And I think about what the teacher said,
as she tried to compliment me,
but only made me feel worse.
Because what about the other children,
who were never told what subject their future was
going to be in?
And I can’t decide whether I am jealous
or sorry for them.