A teacher walks into the classroom. Not an overly undue thing for a classroom. But wait, it’s lunch, how come he is here. All the others are in the staffroom, drinking coffee and tea; talking through the latest brat that talked back to them. There is still a teacher though, in this room, in the most uncaring school in the state.

A child is in the yard. He is quiet, so quiet that the others his age cannot remember he is there. No-one hears his voice; no-one speaks to him. He has a novel, thicker than the arm it is tucked under. You can tell that he just wants a place he can be alone.

The teacher is at the window of the classroom. The window looks out onto the yard. The teacher is watching. He is watching because, unlike the others, he cares. He is still young, barely out of another school that taught him how to teach. He still cares for others; he is still excited about his position in life.

I cannot help but wonder. Do they know how alike they are? Both have no peers, no one to call friend. Those that are in their respective positions with them have forgotten what it is like to care for another. The teacher can see how similar their lives are, he has experience that the child does not yet have, and as any philosopher will say, with experience comes wisdom.

So the child tries to hide while the teacher watches from the window of that classroom. And in one instant, the boy looks up; and makes eye-contact with the teacher. And in that moment the teacher can see he was wrong. He does not have superior wisdom to the child, their only difference is age.

The End

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