Better than a "Get Well" Card

Once I finally succumbed to the winter creep that was settling meanly in my chest, I sank to the depths of my bed and didn't come up for air for two and a half days. That bastard took my voice, which turned out to be very effective in stopping me in my tracks. Teachers need to talk...or so I thought.

I'd never seen such kindness in the eyes of my sixteen-year-old students until I gave them writing advice with a laryngitic (not an actual adjective, but it should be) whisper on Monday morning. If only I came prepared with all my wishes for the school year, I might have performed miracles. In a short time, I achieved wordless compliance with simple requests. The subtlest of gestures gained their rapt attention. A pin dropped, and it made the sweetest sound. But I admitted defeat by lunch. Mask or no mask, school was not the place for me.  

Now that I'm back and speaking words out loud, I wonder about that mythical morning: the day that students knew what to do without even being told.