I ask the class for compound words -second graders - expecting
sunshine, playground,
bouncy words befitting their tender age.
Second graders haven't lived long; they
should know only happiness.
"Foreclose," he pipes up, one
I've pegged as potential problem,
a little chatty, touchy, nothing major.
He perches in his seat as if he's
a bird. "Bottom to bottom, back to back,"
I remind him, as I write on the board,
compliment him even as I correct.
"That's when you have to sell your house.
My house is in foreclosure," he says before
a hand is raised. "My grandma's house is too,"
a little girl across the room chimes in.
As unhappinesses go, it could be worse
(and no doubt is for more than one or two)
but still, it grabs my heart. Why lose a house?
No job? Divorce? The market's upside down?
Not for happy reason, that's for sure. He'll
have to move, leave the nest he's known,
this wingless one who can't sit still because
he knows he's born to fly.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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