History Class.
Lleshanaku, Luljeta
The front row desks were always empty. I never understood why. Second row was all smacking lips of those who recited lessons by heart. In the middle, were the timid ones who took notes and stole the occasional chalk. And in the last row, young boys craning their heads toward beauty marks on the necks of blond girls. I don't remember the teacher's name, the lab, or the names of the portraits on the wall, except the orthopedic irony clinging to his stumped arm like foam at the Cape of Good Hope. When his healthy arm would point out Bismarck, the hollow sleeve looked in an unknown direction. We couldn't tell which of us was the target, which not, questioning this way even that minimal identity we already thought we owned. From his insatiable mouth flew out battle dates, names, causes. Never resolutions, nor winners, because we could hardly wait for the bell to write our own history those days when we knew roughly everything. But sometimes, his hollow sleeve was warm and human like a cricket-filled summer night waiting to land somewhere. On a valley or roof. It searched for a hero among us, not among the athletic or sparkly-eyed ones, but among those "stained" with innocence. One day, each one of us will be that teacher in front of a seventeen-year-old boy or girl with a beauty mark on her neck. And the desks on the front row will remain empty, suspicious like the stumped arm of history which makes the other arm appear omnipotent.