Every Road of Life Has a Dead End

This morning I read that an old friend died. She was a teacher at my grammar school. She taught the 5th grade, but not my class. She taught 5A, and I was in 5B.

Her son and I were in the same class through school. She knew me pretty well. At recess, if I got a little rambunctious she could almost foresee what I was up to and put a halt on it – I thought she could read my mind. Maybe it takes a trickster to catch a trickster.

In the past few years I attended a few funerals of old class mates and a couple of times we sat together. We would point out little known facts about the deceased and his friends and family as the funeral proceeded. It was almost similar to two critics sitting in the balcony whispering comments about a concert in progress.

As I told her things she didn’t know her expression was like a child’s wonderment.

Her husband died in WW II and she raised her two sons as single mother. After they graduated from college and on their own doing well she remarried.

Sara was 88.