They Remember...(Dedicated To Teachers) Poem by Tentative Poet

The man sits, angle-poise on a low table
throwing light, dim orange, onto the book
he holds in his bony fingers.

He leans forward, forehead furrowed,
left hand lifting his reading glasses,
squinting his eyes.

Pausing, he scratches with right index
a spot on his cheek, picks up the cup of tea,
takes a noisy sip, the luke-warm of the liquid
slipping down his parched throat.

He touches his index to the tip of his tongue,
touches the corner of the book, picks up the page,
flips, the finger slow sweeps across the glossy surface,
stopping as he recognizes a face here, another there.

Leaning back, the cup empty, he sees
the photo-frame sitting on the coffee table,
a sad smile curling the corners of his lips,
the pretty face looking out still makes him catch his breath.

Why must it be you, Jean, why not me,
who's old and more ready to leave?
And after our wonderful plans, just as I can finally take
a long break to give all my time to you.

He wonders if he should go make another cup of tea,
maybe have a biscuit, or the left-over pot of porridge,
yet he did not feel hungry, haven't really been
ever since he lost her.

He left soon after her death, his leaving quiet,
briefly announced, a small party in the staff-room
solemn and awkward.

As he cleared his things off the corner table,
the cardboard box brimming twenty-year-old memories
they watched from the corridors, fresh young faces,
curious and troubled.

He had not planned it that way, did not want to leave them,
so near to their finals, had wanted to finish what he started,
wanted to bring them right to the end.

But there was no way to explain his loss,
too soon to discuss how his heart was torn,
his life wrenched out of orbit.

So he walked out, after three years
with this lot, abandoning their warm familiarity,
not even a goodbye, not sure if he could face
their disappointment

The calendar on the wall shows him a year later,
shows him it's a day past the day he used to cherish;
he sees them in his mind, their photographs
in the dusty annual a reminder

Where are you now, my children?
how Jean used to laugh at that, some of his 'children'
heads and shoulders above him.

You must have forgotten old Mr DeCruz,
who understands, how could I not,
after what I did?

Walking in to get another Digestives,
he remembers the small pile of letters
sitting on the kitchen table,
left yesterday after he made tea.

He sifts through them, one catching his eye,
blue envelope, neatly printed address,
his name in bold, something very familiar
in the handwriting.

Carefully slicing through with letter-opener,
he stops in mid-nibble, afraid suddenly:
what if it's not what he thinks it is?

Unsteady fingers unfurl crispy blue paper,
he perches his glasses, begins to read:
'Dear Mr DeCruz, We miss you! We understand why....'

The man sits in silence for a long time,
his shoulders shaking, his dead wife's photograph
on the table a blur, as white Kleenex grows on its surface

They remember, Jean:
they remember