Karen, age 23

For S

Yesterday I told my third grade students that we write because we exist and because we must value our thoughts as we live. This line elicited unanimous looks of confusion. At eight years old, they're only just beginning to realize what it means be alive.

I sought to clarify: How many of you have lost someone who was close to you? A flood of hands filled the air. The day after someone passes is never the same--A new fissure in the way we once understood the world. 

Hypothetically, a new world. Meanings of words evolve. To miss, to love, to know, to control, to be nostalgic, to be confused. We're connected to something uncertain, a chase after the wind that sweeps our tears into yesterday. But, today, you want to understand more. You want to know what this means and why and how and when? You're 8 years old with sad, happy, and mad painted within you. With these hands and your pencil, sculpt your thoughts and your emotions to understand the reasons for why.

One of my girls, contemplative eyes under those crooked glasses, smart because she needs to be, raised her hand: "Ms. JS, when I write, my heart feels better. When I read my books and I have conversations with the authors, my world feels better."