I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(19)

I don’t know. It’s a nice thought and all, but, when it comes right down to it, I know the oak is just an oak, no different from any other tree. I shift in my kneeling position and adjust the hem of the floral dress I’m wearing today. I don’t want the fabric to get wedged under my knees and end up soiled. While I strive to keep rose-print-on-linen clean, my bare knees sink another inch into the soggy ground.

I glance up into the branches of the old oak. Even through the kaleidoscope of leaves, the darkening sky threatens. Things are about to get a lot soggier in a few more minutes.

Okay, maybe sooner…

The rain begins to fall. The bushy canopy of leaves above me provides a modicum of shelter, but cold, fat raindrops still anoint my head.

It’s just a passing shower, but judging from the color of the sky it looks as if things will worsen before they get better. Still, I don’t want to leave quite yet. I know I should go, I’ve lingered long enough, but I have nothing really to do, no reason not to stay.

There are no tasks this day to fill my afternoon.

I teach first grade at the parochial school next door, and Sunday afternoons are usually spent preparing for the week ahead. But with the ring of the final bell this past Friday, the start of summer break was signaled. That means, this week, there are no assignments to grade, no lessons to plan, no fun projects to throw together, nothing. And there won’t be till fall.

How very unfortunate for me, since my Sunday tasks usually keep me busy, busy. So busy in fact that I’ve barely had time to pay any heed to the run-down basement apartment I call home. Today, though, with nothing to distract me, I fear my crummy living conditions may very well swallow me up, until I find myself in the belly of despair, faced with no choice but to acknowledge just how pitiful my living arrangements really are.

So, yeah, I am in no hurry to go home.

I shift again and lower my gaze to the ground. The grass all around me is so incredibly lush and so very, very green, thanks to all the rain. In this emerald sea of blades, a clump of wild violets captures my attention. The tiny flowers are within arm’s reach. I lean to my right and carefully pluck six—one for each year of my baby sister’s too-short life.

I bind the stems together with a skinny blade of grass and place the mini bouquet at the base of the headstone. I whisper once more, “You loved the color purple.”

The fine mist turns to a steady drizzle. I need to seek shelter if I plan to stick around and not get soaked. I rise to my feet, smooth out the wrinkles in my dress, and straighten my sweater. A breeze kicks up and I cross my arms. I know there’s a small covered bench on the other side of the cemetery. I’ve sat there a few times when the weather has turned inclement like this.

The rain picks up even more, hurrying me along. I snatch my bag up off the ground, spin around, and take off at a full sprint. Thank goodness for flats. I outrun the worst of the downpour, but by the time I plop down on the bench—thankful to be sheltered from the elements—my cardigan is damp and my ballet flats are soaked.

I kick the squishy shoes off, and bring my legs up until my dress shrouds almost every inch of bare skin. The cemetery is peaceful and quiet, especially with the falling rain. I close my eyes, listen to the pat-pat-patter on the wooden roof above me, and think about my life.

With no class to teach, the next three months threaten to be lonely and long. I have no real friends. Maybe Missy, but it’s not like we’re particularly close. Apart from church-related things, we don’t spend much time together.

It’s not Missy’s fault, not really. The blame rests with me. I always decline when she asks me to go places with her, places like the Anchor Inn, a local bar in town.

“We’ll have so much fun, Kay,” she usually says. “Come on-n-n. Maybe you’ll meet a cute guy. God, when’s the last time you even had a date?” An up-and-down appraisal always accompanies her words, along with a look of pity.

“You’re actually kind of pretty, Kay.”—gee, thanks, I think, but don’t say—“You should reconsider. You just never know who you might run into at the Anchor Inn.”

Maybe she’s right, and maybe one of these days I’ll take her up on her offer. Then again, maybe not. I haven’t had much luck with men, and I don’t foresee any change in the future.

I sigh and toy with my sweater sleeve. It’s sad really. Not much gives me joy.

Well, maybe teaching. That I love. I’ve only been doing it a year, but I enjoy it immensely. Far more than I ever thought I would back when I was taking education classes at college. But the kids are so amazing. They’ve won me over.

It saddens me to think I won’t be seeing the children that brightened my days until fall. Such a long ways away. Sure, I’ll probably run into a few kids around Harmony Creek, when they’re out with their parents. But I know I’ll miss the day-to-day interactions, some of which resulted in little joys I never would have expected. Such as Timmy’s silly-happy grin when he hears we’re starting a new art project or Hanna’s beaming face when she receives a gold star on a particularly tough math worksheet. And then there’s Colton’s palpable sense of accomplishment when he’s able to read an entire paragraph out loud to the class with not one mistake. That warms my heart beyond belief. Just remembering all of these special moments brings a smile to my lips.

I guess it’s fairly obvious my whole life is wrapped up in the church and the school. But it’s really all I have. That’s why I pray the day never comes when Father Maridale pulls me aside and tells me the church can no longer afford to keep me. And it could happen. I’m the newest hire, and enrollment at Holy Trinity is down, more so than last year. There’s less and less money coming in. I worry not just for my own job security, but for the future of the school in general. Goodness knows the building itself is in dire need of repairs. The red brick exterior is holding up well, but the inside is a mess—dull linoleum floors, burned-out lighting, peeling and scuffed paint on the classroom walls. It’s sad, really.