School

I twist the paper from her small, squeezed hand. It tears.

“You did it, Idiot,” she says, testing.

I hesitate, focusing on a loss other than my authority.

“—You don’t speak to an elder that way,” someone interrupts. "You will follow her instructions. She is your teacher. Perhaps you speak to your mother that way, but it will not happen here." And on. . . .

No tears in response, but the well-played silence of a child familiar with the cadence and tone of anger.

“We’re just keeping her warm is all, she doesn’t care. . . .”

No matter. She is quiet now, unresponsive now. We are all wrong, and what I hear is the unmistakable echo of a closed door,the muffled cry of losses conveniently contained.