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CLASS PICTURE, MY GRANDMOTHER AS TEACHER, 1922 / Kathleen McGookey No knowing what she knows, no small, sad smile, just a steady gaze, her hands carefully placed on the arms of the wicker chair. Absolutely still for minutes the photographer clicked and muttered and fussed. She gazes out of the chair. She sees the first snow falling, dizzy patterns, and the big eighth-grade boys--she's afraid of them--running past. This day of expectation, a carriage ride, a white rabbit muff, and a certain dignity lost, a word, once said, that cannot be called back. Each time smoke rises from the black stove, she claps the lid down, then returns to the front of the classroom, something like fear in the back of her throat. Her hair smoothed back with a big navy bow. Some children she loves less than herself, and the boys would be better off in the fields, far from her, better caught in moonlight in hay, not half tamed in class, bodies spilling off their chairs. Her hair is smoke, the smoke that rose as her father's barn burned, and eight men on horseback formed a half circle around the blaze and simply watched. Slow music
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Oct 5, 1995
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