by Karin Breuer

Created on: September 30, 2008   Last Updated: May 02, 2012

School's Out!

I pull into the parking lot of the school and turn off the motor of my car to wait for Malcolm's class to finish. I flick the radio to CBC. A young woman's voice recounts her experience as a teacher in Labrador in a village whose name I did not catch. The woman's name is Michelle and she speaks softly of the young girls that invade her home and her life, their voices recorded sometimes as background and sometimes as foreground in Michelle's story.

It is a warm, sunny day, the last week in September. I lean back in my seat half-listening to the radio, half musing at thoughts that pass through my mind as I watch the door where Malcolm will soon come out. The school is quiet now. There are no shrill voices of children at play, no shouts of joy, no sudden wail of a child falling in the now empty adventure playground. The only reason one knows that there are children inside the building is that the parking lot is filled with the vehicles of teachers. Beyond the parking lot, on the other side of me, a car drives by and then once again that wonderful, late summer tranquility. A bird chirps its song and makes me smile. Here, in a little oasis, in the heart of a city, a quiet school, a copse of trees, a bird singing, I am blessed with a moment of absolute peace.

Across from me a car drives up slowly and stops. A young woman gets out and crosses the road to come to the school. She stands by the door that I am watching. We wait for it to open. She, unaware of me, unaware of the song of the bird, unaware of a small plane that crosses overhead, listens to the voice from earphone attached to the IPod tucked into the breast pocket of her shirt. And now more adults walk towards the closed door that we all wait to be opened. The young woman shuts off the IPod and tucks the earphone into the same pocket. A large boisterous woman in black jeans and a T-shirt greets the waiting group, walks up to the door and peers into the window. She turns to a petite fashion icon and engages her in animated conversation. There is an assertive stance to the fashion icon. Her legs made longer by the black high-heeled boots that reach to just below her knees are topped by a micro mini grey tweed skirt, black sweater and black leather jacket open at the front. She stands straight and self-assured. Black, softly curled hair frame her almost flawless face the kind that you see in magazines surreal except for the sound of her voice which is familiar like the chatter of women across the backyard fence in my neighborhood twenty years ago. It is friendly chatter without trace of the polished sophistication belied by her appearance.

Then the door of the classroom opens and children freed from their studies pour out in a stream. I hear "mom" and "dad" and "look" and then my concentration is broken by the voice of Malcolm "Oma!" He runs to me and we hug. I take his hand and we are away, the boisterous voice of the large lady and the neighborly voice of the fashion icon forgotten. For the next few hours, I am his and he is mine. We will play in the late summer sun and I will cherish this day long after he believes himself to be too old to play with his grandmother.

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