Wellsville, NY
I have been to Wellsville, NY, about fifty minutes to the east of me, exactly three times in my ten and a half years at Bonas. Tonight was the third time.
My second trip to Wellsville came just a few months ago, in September. It was on that trip that a friend of mine and I realized our attempts at ignoring our powerful mutual attraction weren't working so well. We came back from that trip as more than just friends, holding hands the entire journey home. It was lovely. I think of Wellsville fondly because of that experience.
My previous trip had been for sadder reasons. A student of mine passed away just weeks before graduation. He was on his third heart. While waiting to go to the doctor's for a check up, he died. He was in his dorm room, surrounded by his roommates. The senior class was traumatized. One of my colleagues and I rode to Wellsville for the funeral. It was a beautiful day, so we rode in his convertible with the top down-a much-needed shot of life on day when we both needed it.
I made my trip to Wellsville tonight for similar reasons. Another student passed away this week. He was wheelchair-bound because of M.S. Although he knew he didn't have years and years ahead of him, he wanted to finish his college degree, so he and an aide came over for classes a couple times a week so he could plug away at it. The last time I had him in class was last spring, when he'd enrolled in two of my courses.
His death at the beginning of this week came unexpectedly, though. My stomach, full of Christmas cookie cheer, felt unbelievably heavy and thick once I got the news.
I braved slick roads and a mist-fine snowfall to drive to Wellsville for the visitation tonight. I knew I wouldn't know anyone, and I had to ask the priest to introduce me to the student's family members so I could express my condolences. I stayed perhaps all of ten minutes.
While I was there, I noticed on a tabletop a framed poem that the student had written to his dad back in 2003. The poem talked about the importance of father/son relationships. "Dad, I know there's a reason for this world," it said. "It's me and you."
In the parking lot of the funeral home, I called Jackson. I wanted him to know that he was my reason for this world-he and his sister. But since the poem was about fathers and sons, I needed to have the moment with him.
And so my third trip to Wellsville kept the karma scales balanced after all: a down trip, an up trip, and a trip tonight that started down but ended up. After all, nothing's better than being reminded about the reason for the world.
My second trip to Wellsville came just a few months ago, in September. It was on that trip that a friend of mine and I realized our attempts at ignoring our powerful mutual attraction weren't working so well. We came back from that trip as more than just friends, holding hands the entire journey home. It was lovely. I think of Wellsville fondly because of that experience.
My previous trip had been for sadder reasons. A student of mine passed away just weeks before graduation. He was on his third heart. While waiting to go to the doctor's for a check up, he died. He was in his dorm room, surrounded by his roommates. The senior class was traumatized. One of my colleagues and I rode to Wellsville for the funeral. It was a beautiful day, so we rode in his convertible with the top down-a much-needed shot of life on day when we both needed it.
I made my trip to Wellsville tonight for similar reasons. Another student passed away this week. He was wheelchair-bound because of M.S. Although he knew he didn't have years and years ahead of him, he wanted to finish his college degree, so he and an aide came over for classes a couple times a week so he could plug away at it. The last time I had him in class was last spring, when he'd enrolled in two of my courses.
His death at the beginning of this week came unexpectedly, though. My stomach, full of Christmas cookie cheer, felt unbelievably heavy and thick once I got the news.
I braved slick roads and a mist-fine snowfall to drive to Wellsville for the visitation tonight. I knew I wouldn't know anyone, and I had to ask the priest to introduce me to the student's family members so I could express my condolences. I stayed perhaps all of ten minutes.
While I was there, I noticed on a tabletop a framed poem that the student had written to his dad back in 2003. The poem talked about the importance of father/son relationships. "Dad, I know there's a reason for this world," it said. "It's me and you."
In the parking lot of the funeral home, I called Jackson. I wanted him to know that he was my reason for this world-he and his sister. But since the poem was about fathers and sons, I needed to have the moment with him.
And so my third trip to Wellsville kept the karma scales balanced after all: a down trip, an up trip, and a trip tonight that started down but ended up. After all, nothing's better than being reminded about the reason for the world.