First Day
I can remember my skinny, ten year old self
sitting at the worn, wooden desk
the kind that had the chair and table as a singular unit
with a too-small drawer beneath the seat
and a long-unused inkwell
my desk was in the row
by the old, soaring windows
that creaked when opened and shut
les fenêtres, we would learn from our French teacher
un pupitre, les élèves, un stylo, la craie
the clackety-clack Venetian blinds were raised and
sunlight strode in to investigate the supplies I'd been given by my Grade 5 teacher
notebooks that held the upcoming thrill of writing on the first page
a bubblegum pink eraser, all edges intact, no errors yet made
a newly sharpened pencil that said learning was the point
a wooden ruler, one foot long, dependable
several map of Canada book covers to fold around my texts
from sea to sea to sea to 49th parallel
and
best of all
in their small cardboard box
with the image of an idyllic snow-covered cabin in the mountains
a fresh packet of eight Laurentian coloured pencils
Thank you for your visit here today.
You are welcome to add your own memory.
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