She began talking while I kept typing. There was something familiar about her that I couldn't place, as I only saw part of her face. “Hi Daddy, can ...e play?” she asked in a sweet southern accent that had a familiarity to it. “Sure baby, how old are you?” (I always ask, as law enforcement seems to think this is their playground too.) “I'm 22, how old are you?” I typed “47, but I'm not dead yet.” (There's that wit I was talking about.) She smiled and asked for proof; “not yet, I need to see. I amreminded of this as I approach the door and stop, asI do everyday, and smile, once again having caught myreflection in the glass of my homeroom at John BryantElementary School. All the instances of anger andfrustration, confusion, pain, and heartbreak seemsmall and petty. I see a happy, confident, beautifulwoman in a flower print dress and sweater. A young,married woman going home to the home she shares withthe most amazing man, to the life they?ve builttogether. I am struck by how. More

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