Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Fiction class

Arrange for the sitter, get dinner ready, make sure Girlie's homework is done, pre-pack lunches for the next day, make sure Little Guy has clean PJs, walk the dog, have some cash on hand, read and thoughtfully comment on the pieces. I feel like a conductor, warming up each section, hoping it will all come together. The concert starts Tuesdays at 5:30 sharp.

It is all worth it as soon as my foot hits the sidewalk. I walk to the train. On the subway, I pretend to read while I eavesdrop on conversations. The classes are held across from the Public Gardens, just down the street from Emerson College. The streets are filled with people rushing to the trains after work and college students who move in slow packs, because they're in no hurry. I tuck into the crowd, anonymous, on my own path. I walk quickly and my footsteps are surprisingly light without the children in tow. I enter the building, ride up the ancient elevator (there's a sign that says to make sure the emergency switch is fully up, or the elevator won't operate), and find my place at the table, usually in the same seat, but not always. I listen and read aloud and share my opinion. People listen to me. At the end of it, I come home, walk through dark streets to my house.

And then I sit wide awake, like tonight, not able to sleep from the excitement of it.

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