Jennifer Juneau

Tomorrow They Will Make Paperweights

The teacher is up late at night grading papers.
I know this because I live across the street
from the village schoolhouse and I'm up late too.
I'm a dim future realized; she marks futures to come.

Tomorrow, I will wake up to this: she (the teacher)
will give instruction to her pupils in spelling and in numbers
(I know this because I live across the street from the village schoolhouse
and I'll be up early despite my long night of watching
the teacher grade papers in the well-lighted room)
then mid-morning the children will attempt art.

The outside world will be gray
with left over mist from the prior evening's rain.

They (the children) will make paperweights.

The fluorescent lights in the art class will overwhelm
the small hands that awkwardly dip strips of newspaper into paste.
The caked fingers will wrap the strips around some object,
a shapely rock, a small jar perhaps.

They'll have to place the objects on the windowsill to dry.
The mist will turn to snow....

Later they will break out the paint to paint them.
I know this because my window is situated
directly across the street from the village schoolhouse
and I've been watching this for years. It's almost Christmas.
They'll think their art is a good gift: a contribution to keeping documents at bay.

I'll watch until one pair of eyes strays and catches me,
wondering, Why is that stranger with the sad face
peering at us through the tired glass of her home,
across the street from the village schoolhouse? Who knows.
But soon to forget. And get back to work. And make paperweights,
festive forever, yesterday's news upon the world.