Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the PTA meeting hummed, a soundtrack to my quiet satisfaction. Mr. Abernathy. Still teaching sixth grade. The man who'd once given me detention for "talking back" was now facing me, arms crossed, as I questioned the curriculum on behalf of my son, Ben.

"Perhaps," I began, my voice deliberately measured, "the historical context of the French Revolution isn't quite as relevant as the current trends in digital media, don't you think?" I watched as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

I started dropping by the school, "just to check in," I'd say. I'd bring cookies for the class, always making sure to include a generous helping for Mr. Abernathy. The cookies were my weapon; too many and he'd gain weight, not enough and he'd be seen as a negligent teacher.

My gaze lingered on his thinning hair, his slightly stooped posture, the subtle tremor in his hands. Every sign of his advancing years filled me with a strange sort of calm.