The Crossguard

Every morn there stands she, cladded in fluorescent and a sign of equal zeal. In the middle of the mad road there was more respect than home. In the middle of the angry cars she found home, empowered.Each wave of students surrounded her with an uniform wintry hue, splashes of “thank you”s and “good morning”s more for formality than gratitude. Then they swept away to return again the next morn, and she listened, smiled, pretended that she knew the slow note of ocean waves.

The last time she saw the ocean was when she looked out the small circles of blue lining the walls of the plane. It seemed so still as she tugged the airline’s cheap blanket up to her napping child’s chin.

A car honked, a parent pissed. She stood still. Yes, your child is important. Tardies are deadly. She

knows.

“I am sorry, but your daughter…” “The driver is just a student.” “She didn’t look around…”

Too many waves drew back, the young faces eventually eroded her. She was tired, and one day found herself standing at a new intersection. Children, including her own, are airy waves crossing the river. She rushed forward, didn’t care for the cars or drunks or teenage irresponsibilities.

She reached out and found her sign, her vest, and treaded into the river, the intersection to home.

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