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For almost 30 years, National Poetry Month has been honored in April. It might be my favorite annual celebration. We immerse ourselves in Shel Silverstein, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, Judith Viorst, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Nikki Giovanni, to name just a few.
Here are a few reasons why I love it so much:
My phone is constantly buzzing with notifications—someone is at the front door, my internet connection is weak, an Amazon order has shipped, my Target pickup is ready, a storm is on the way, Wayfair has a sale (again). The list goes on. While I turn off notifications for some apps, I leave others on, because even though they can be a bit much, I do appreciate the reminders. For the most part, it’s a convenience.
Recently, I walked into school and immediately felt the weight in the air. Teachers were hugging, eyes were red, voices were quiet. I quickly learned why: A former student had passed away unexpectedly the night before. He was only 12.
I never had the chance to teach him, but his cousin is in my class now, and my heart ached for everyone who knew him. It’s not the way anyone wants to start the day. It’s one of those moments when words feel useless, and no matter what you say, it won’t fix what’s broken.
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