This poem was inspired by my daughter, Corrie, and the fact I never got to say goodbye to two groups of students I’d taught in back-to-back years. Pictures by me of my daughter and students without identifying them are spread throughout the poem.
A whistle as he stands back with
his spray can and looks at his
work on the brick wall where
in the nineteen twenties to
fifties, a small grocery
store had done its
business. The face of his friend
is art, and he sprays his name
in big letters so others never
forget because he …
never got to say goodbye.
A whistle on the breeze as you sit
on the bed of the truck
looking at the bundles of
hay—once grass—where, some
time ago, a little girl had walked.
Just as soon as this season’s hay
is loaded, the next season’s grass
begins to grow. The whistle stops.
Kites catch a good wind when
black clouds gather, and
sometimes a child—
with the hope children
unexposed to
brick wall epitaphs—
exclaims:
“Maybe it won’t rain.”
Never could I whistle,
and never did time allow
for my goodbyes to all
the children I ever loved.
Only two children I loved
above the rest, and one
has left the field where
next season’s grass begins
to grow, but there was
never time to process
my goodbyes when the
pandemic forced me to
shut my classroom doors.
And only one year before
I elected not to go
to the eighth grade
graduation
to watch the children
I’d taught for two years
take the stage.
Not after an illness
my body struggled
to fight, and not
not after the fight.
On the day of the
picnic, I’d talked to
so many about their
futures, high school,
and clubs in which
they’d participate.
Their scores had
reflected more than
those who were
elected’s addiction to
tests. Two girls told me,
“We want to be lawyers.”
In the moment then,
I was a child with the kite as
it caught a good wind, but
the black clouds gathered.
On came the storm as I tried
to keep my kids from joining
the fight, one of my kids on
the ground below the officer,
And, no, I …
never got to say goodbye.
I remember in March when
Corona stretched out
its tentacles inside
the breathing spaces of
bars built in vintage brick
buildings—rumored to
have been a small
grocery store in the
nineteen twenties.
No more dogs, choirs,
and adult children
visited the nursing homes.
When a student said to me,
“They say the schools will
close.” I smiled at him,
and despite my wisdom
from the schools I’d
worked in, I said, “Maybe …
it won’t rain.”
Restless sleep approached one
year after the fight, and while
I taught online, I wondered if
all the children I’d loved
were okay. Did they
have enough to eat? Did they
know I missed them dropping
off their baseball
and softball bags in my room
while they went to art and gym?
From the hallway, my daughter
laughed and said, “Mommy,
can you hear me?” She’d giggle
and run away. Later on the
news, she said, “Mommy, look,
a baby died from COVID-19.”
“Yes, sweetie, it takes kids, too.”
Then a tumor—had it been a
person, I’d have murdered with
my two hands—took the girl I’d
waited for all my life. And, I never …
“Mommy, do you love
your students
more than me?”
“No, baby girl, never.”
Kites catch a good wind when …
“Corrie, come inside. It’s raining,” I said.
“But, Mommy, I have to water the
flowers,” she replied. “It’s raining.”
A student wrote:
“I can clearly say you are
the only teacher that
I have ever met that
cares about their
students this much.”
A whistle as he stands back with
his spray can and looks at his
work on the brick wall where …
In Corrie’s last hours, students
I knew from both schools
emailed, texted, and found me
on social media to tell me:
“You were such a good mother to your little girl.”
Until one year after my
angel flew, I never knew
my students gathered
and recorded videos …
for me.
“You have been there to talk
through my lowest times,
and you were always there
for me. It really meant a
lot to me because I’d never
had a teacher-student
bond like that before.”
“You’re an amazing, incredible teacher.
You made us laugh everyday in class.
You taught us incredibly well.”
“We don’t want you to give
your hopes up, so you can
continue to live the way
you used to live even though
it will be hard without
someone you love.”
“I hope you just fight through
this as the strong woman
you are. You’re a true blessing
to everybody’s heart.”
The rain stops. I still cannot
whistle, and although I’m
not the same as I was before,
I know love the way a
tumor never does, and
more people, than I ever
know, say Corrie’s name.
Next season’s grass begins to grow,
and the kite catches a good wind.
The sun shines with a breeze, so
maybe it won’t rain.
Poem and most pictures by Rebecca T. Dickinson. Poem copyrighted 2021 R.T. Dickinson.
Dedicated to all the children I’ve ever loved, and as always, Corrie.
Corrie's Season 
Reblogged this on Come to Corrie's Corner and commented:
I share the poem, “Maybe It Won’t Rain” on Come to Corrie’s Corner because it is about my students, and the loss of their presence I felt in back-to-back years followed quickly by the loss of my daughter, Corrie. The poem tells the story about the loss of goodbye, hope lost, and hope regained through the actions of a few students. “The sun shines with a breeze, so maybe it won’t rain.”