Smudges
My whiteboard is blackened only by expo, and education. Erasers rubbing equations into smudges—ghosts of numbers and letters. Recent half-visible homework problems persist as silhouettes surrounded by hell clouds in the blankness.
“Remind me. This one needs replacing” Says the janitor.
“Seas of day-old ink swirls swim aloft. They never go away!” Say students.
Magical cleaning spray saves it for another two yearbooks in my collection. Eventually it’s leaving is celebrated by that moment's class, and mildly mourned by my eyes. They are seniors, I teach Calculus for them, and I watch them in the hallways, running, screaming, and growing—so long. I watch the students be erased by unfolding diplomas, smudges left in my dusty yearbooks.