I’m in grade one.
My teacher is Mrs. Baldwin.
She is plump and grey-haired, soft-spoken but stern. I adore her.
I sit at one of the wooden desks that is attached to a chair. And no…the desk doesn’t have an ink well. I’m not quite that old.
At the front of the classroom are the green chalkboards, above which are the letters of the alphabet, written in cursive. The letters look beautiful to me, and maybe that’s why, to this day, I still write in cursive on lined paper, reminiscent of the lined exercise books we had for practicing our printing and writing.
On the ledge of the chalkboards are the erasers with their red, white and blue striping. I like the privilege of erasing the chalkboards, clacking together the erasers and sending particles of chalk floating through the air, tickling my nose and making me sneeze.
But it’s the scent of the emerald green granules the janitor uses to sweep the halls that stays with me to this day. The fresh green pungent smell of these little emeralds is something I’ve not experienced since those days back in public school
The janitor had this gigantic push broom that pushed these emeralds along the floor, leaving a glistening mirror-like finish. I thought those floors were beautiful as they gleamed and shone. Their flecks of brown and black, smooth as silk seemed never to be scuffed or muddy.
Magical emeralds. Magical memories.
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