The glint in Miss Jessel’s hair was so simple, so quick, that I almost missed it, like an answer to a riddle. Suddenly, I cared about derivatives even less. So casual, how she tossed her strands, and yet how cleverly she caught me.
It wrapped me up tight in a cotton memory of home, when I was nine, beneath a fort of pillows and hiding from the night. Her glint of blonde hair now was the light from my hall then that peeked through my door to tuck me in.
My parents’ shadows walked across my bedroom wall and I saw them in her hair now, as if my past were a part of her body. My father’s silhouette from twelve years ago snuck in to Miss Jessel’s hair as if he were going to bed down the hall in the nape of my teacher’s neck.