saying goodbye to my teachers

Every year, so my mom tells it, while the other kids were running for the bus to get home on the last day of school, I would linger beside my teacher.  I didn't want to leave her.  The last one to go, I would pass the empty playground on my way to my mom's waiting minivan, looking at the dust mounds under the swings, the monkey bars where I chicken-fought all the boys and won, the little log cabin where I made (and lost) a few friends, and I would cry.

Every year.

Now, we are fast approaching our final days in this city, and I am lingering beside her.  She is one of the best teachers I've ever known.  She has challenged me, scolded me, comforted me, taught me, and most importantly, she has pointed me in the right direction, like all good teachers do.

She isn't spectacular, perhaps, to anyone else, but this place means a whole heck-of-a-lot to me.

The bakery where I buy my bread (when I haven't had the energy at night to load my bread machine).

The red bean paste-filled "cakes" that my kids love with a passion.

The walking street in our neighborhood where my kids run their hearts out, and wear their jeans out.

The courtyard under our apartment window where we shoot giant water guns and ride tricycles.

The apartment that has been home longer than any other address in the last ten years.

I will miss you, Spring City, and I will love you always.