I'm sitting in class listening to a strange

quiet voice - - - as it weaves together

a tapestry of words.

The story moves slowly - but is very

descriptive.

There is a comfort in the sound of the voice;

the sound of a teacher telling her tale.

Remembered emotions flood my brain as the soft

utterance of that voice envelopes my imagination;

memories of storytimes cherished and held dear,

memories of teachers, grandmothers, and sisters...

and Mother's sweet echo - - - adrift in the womb.

Even the annoying whispers of the perpetually

speaking children reminds me that I was once

a twittering fool such as they;

I was that boyhood frollicking wanderer;

I was that victim...

and yet I bleed still.

The tapestry woven,

the frame now in focus,

the story now ended is a myth told anew.

A tale of a monsterous bloodthirsty reign,

a ball of string and a puzzle,

and a hero born when the monster is slain.

The narrator is finished,

ths story is over,

but the spell that was cast lingers still in my heart.

The class is dismissed - but I wait for a moment,

Until the child within says that it's time to depart.