At the beginning of each school year I remember the beginning of another school year, when I met M and we talked about literature and English teaching for the first time, with an intensity that I haven't experienced since then. He is the person that I want to talk to about Wilde, Sophocles, Astley and the others now, to clarify my understandings and crystalise my readings.
Grief is a funny thing. It lingers, simmering, and then spasms at odd times, like when P's son had his car accident last year and it was announced during the morning briefing. He was ok but the bitter taste, the clouds over the eyes and the knee tremors were suddenly back again, and the world suddenly felt very small again. And suddenly you remember how tears would stream quietly down your face every day for months while you were driving to school, and how you couldn't listen to music because it sounded like chainsaws.
Anyway, I should be studying.
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