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Pam's daughter got her first teaching job. I can't help it--I'm jealous that I'll never share that moment with you as she has with Jennifer. The Chadwick's catalogues still come in the mail, but now the "teacher clothes" mock me. Instinctively I browse the bookstores for children's local interest books when I travel. Then I remember--there's no teacher's library to build any longer. Every night, I weep, remembering. In excited late-night talks, you spun a tapestry of your future before me. Always--always--I saw where I had been tenderly woven in. And every night, I weep, trying to forget. Like lovenotes fingered on steamy mirrors, your woven dreams have vanished. © Jan Hernandez
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