It seemed to be a slow slide into spring, days patiently pushing the powder toward petals.
But with a turn of my head, my heart began to race jagged across the pages of days.
Standing before twenty-two fourth grade students who could never have imagined their "Goodbye, Mrs. Pridemore" chanted one Thursday afternoon would be their last, I knew they feared to face the fade to memories as the sole source of honor for their song singing teacher.
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An aneurysm shook her body from her earthly throne, but her purpose patterned persistence designed the legacy now engraved on their hearts.
The balm of words and prayers ease the oozing ache of wounded hearts.
Daily classroom life dulls the breathless, silent panting.
Tears sting less as confused anger subsides and lingering sorrow softens.
And these ten year old souls I have come to know and who know the hope of Heaven will ever be lullabied the whispers of Amazing Grace by their witness from the clouds, Mrs. Pridemore.
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