There are days when all of this seems unreal. That Jason will walk through the door any minute now, laughing away at how much we fell for this, the ultimate joke.
If it feels this way for those of us who were with him, who held his hand and watched him slip away so quickly, I can only imagine how it is for those who hadn't seen him for awhile.
It is times like this that it all becomes so very real.....
Jason's headstone was installed today at the Pack River Cemetery in Sandpoint, Idaho.
Its a lovely and fitting memorial for one so dear.... his father George Zimmerman and his "other mother" Patsy commissioned this wonderful stone for this, his final resting place.
Thank you also to Jason's dear friends the Hughes and Durrants from Green River, Utah who graciously collected stones from some of Jason's beloved haunts on the San Rafael Swell, as well as to Janelle and Gerb for providing some sweet fall decorations a few weeks ago on their pilgrimage north.
We love you Jason... and we rest assured in the belief that we will see and be with you again. Until then, may we all continue on this adventure called life..... and enjoy every moment that it gives us.
You see my friend, Rich, found this little fellow abandoned inside the local Home Depot. Being too young to survive on his own, Rich brought him home and fed him for two days on meals of earthworm and a wild birdseed mash.
Since nobody is able to continually care for this little guy (who needs to be fed about every two hours) until he is old enough to fly, I volunteered for the task of driving him to the Southwest Wildlife Foundation up in Cedar City.
I won’t lie when I say that a part of me wanted to keep him, to raise him like a pet; maybe something like Christian, the lion. One day, we’d be separated and then – years later – be brought back together in a tear-filled reunion.
I imagined walking out the door on school mornings, and Night Terror would fly from my shoulder to the skies on buoyant winds, as I would drive the distance to work. He would race my car the three-mile distance and probably beat me every day.
I could almost envision the thrill of my fifth graders at our class pet – a wild bird that would fly down and land on their teacher’s shoulder during recesses and then launch itself again into the air when it was time for class to begin.
Then I changed my mind…I wouldn’t want to bring that many changes of shirts to work with me each day.
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A teacher has students which enter the doors of his classroom every year. Every single one of those students leaves an imprint.
For some of them that impression fades slowly over time; like telltale footprints left in the shifting sands of life—
For others, their tracks are made in the proverbial ‘wet cement’ of memory. Small marks are left behind to call attention to those who’ve made a lasting impression; whether that is from responsibility they’ve evidenced…perhaps because of their kindness, or simply it was from their positive attitude which set them apart and made them so memorable.
These are the students which are so hard to see move on.
These are the students you hope that you’ve made your mark on as well.
I had a hard time today as the moment came inauspiciously nearer for the winding up of our learning; the end of our year together. This year’s class was harder for me to lose than students in years past for some reason.
Why is this?
To be honest, I’m not so sure myself…
Perhaps because this was a new school for me as well as an entirely new grade; in many ways I felt like a first year teacher again…for some reason there’s something special about a teacher’s first class that the others seem to lack. This class felt an awful lot like that.
As we watched the video of our class activities throughout the year, the students were all singing along with the music set to video. The year was unfolding before us all—emblazoned on the screen of our darkened classroom; as my students’ voices blended with that of the music, I felt tears rising in my eyes.
I was going to miss this motley crew of little people who’d all come from different worlds. Forced—by circumstance—into one classroom, and who’d had a teacher who expected them all to become friends with each other.
Several of them balked. Many of them complained. All of them survived.
As I watched them together today—as well as last night—it really hit me just how close this class had become over the course of nine months; individuals who were strangers and wanted nothing to do with each other, but rather wanted to simply play with their ‘other friends’ in different classes were now connected. They were attached. They had become friends.
The music ended and the class started the ritualistic and notorious shirt signing—as well as the “Zs” drawn on everyone’s foreheads—a tradition started some 8 years ago which didn’t die when I moved schools; far too many students followed me who’d had older siblings. I had a sneaking suspicion that that little ‘tradition’ would continue at the end of each year for many more years to come.
The bell rang and my class was given their teacher placements for next year—the instructor they’d have for nine months after a nice, long summer to forget all they’ve already learned. There was a bustle of chaos as happy friends cheered when they found they’d be in the same classroom, and gloom when they found out that they’d be in a different one from the friends they’d shared so many life experiences with..
My students all wanted to be in the same place. They wanted to be in the same classroom. They all wanted to be together.
For the second time I felt tears pricking my eyes.
As I was kneeling down to sign someone’s shirt, Joey ran up behind me and wrapped his arms around my neck. He just held on. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. A moment later he whispered, “I’m going to miss you, Mr. Z.”
“I’m going to miss you, too.” I whispered back to the boy hanging around my neck like a Superman cape.
As suddenly as he’d come, his embrace was broken and he vanished with a crowd of friends, all uttering the chant of “See you after summer, Mr. Z!”
In a flurry of backpacks and standard reports, the students trickled from the room in twos and threes; finally, the classroom was silent and I found myself alone.
I cried.
I was saddened to end this last adventure; to conclude this most recent chapter in a story which was still full of so many blank, unwritten pages.
I didn’t feel like doing anything; as a result, I moved a few items about the classroom in a deadened sort of way; my body was merely going through the motions of doing something.
A feeling settled over me, like a physical force which pulled me down to a chair behind a desk littered with remnants of the school year. It was starting to feel like one of those days where you just sit in the house and eat straight from the mayonnaise jar with spoon.
The door opened.
A brown-haired boy I recognized came through it; he was in the fourth grade—soon to be the fifth. He saw me sitting at my desk and strolled back to where I was; a reserved smile on his face.
“Mr. Z, I found out who my teacher is going to be for next year,” he said in breathless awe.
“You did?”
The boy dug a wrinkled envelope from his backpack and brandished it proudly; from inside he pulled a typewritten letter. He unfolded it carefully and pointed to the name printed on the crisp sheet of ashen paper.
Mr. Zimmerman
I gave this boy a sincere smile, still feeling a bit melancholy with the rollercoaster of a day it had been. “I’m glad you’re in my class,” I told him. “I’m excited for next year.”
“I am too,” he responded with a thrill of elation in his voice, like standing there in my classroom were more than he could handle. For a moment I thought his face was going to split wide open—wide as his smile was stretched.
He carefully folded his letter and sacrosanctly slid it back into the envelope where it was again deposited into his backpack. When he finished, he lingered for a moment or two, uttering, “Well, I’ll see you next year!” and then headed for the door.
After a few steps he paused, and turned with a grin. “Mr. Z, do you know the best part about walking?”
“About walking?”
When I admitted that I didn’t know this choice little tidbit to the secret of strolling, he promptly replied, “Your arms can just do whatever they want…they can just flop around and it’s okay.” He grinned and then added. “It’s gonna be a great year, Mr. Z.”
With this he opened the door and vanished
“It already is, Joey.” I replied. “It already is.”
