Mrs. Cintrone had a cane and when she was up, it led her around the room. When she was down, she sagged into her teacher’s chair, gripping the cane like a staff. Her bones poked through her sweaters like a clutch of broomsticks. She would raise a pointed finger to the chalkboard and I’d marvel at her copper green veins. 


When I acted out at home, my mother pressed the telephone receiver into her ear and say, Oh yes, Mrs. Cintrone, I will tell her you’re on the way. I fluttered with panic and prayed deeply even as I saw her fingers hold down the telephone hook.

 

But in a year, I moved on to another grade and classroom. No more staring at her crocheted skin. No more sinking into my school chair. I grew bolder. I talked back to my mother and I hit my sister. 

 

Years passed and the small panics of childhood, once taut as cables, lost their pull. I rarely thought of Mrs. Cintrone. I cast off the bile, the nerves. Then, the shame came, just as my mother's hands turned to lace.

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