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MANY ANGELS SMILE
By
Rick Brown
“Aaron! Sit down! You need to be at your desk and ready — no! Put it down and get back to your desk.”
Mrs. Wagoner stood before the class for the
umpteenth time, hands on her hips and a tired look on her face.
“Aaron?! Make a good choice. Everyone else is working on their
Christmas poem and that’s where you need to be, too. Do you need to go
to Mrs. Abernathy’s office for the rest of the afternoon? If you’re not
back in your seat by the count of five: one, two, three — make a good
choice — four . . .”
Before Mrs. Wagoner could actually get the
word five to echo off the walls of the classroom, Aaron was back in his
seat. He knew how to wait until the exact last moment to slide into his
desk and pick up his pencil as if he had been there all the time.
“Mrs. Wagoner, I don’t know how to write a Christmas poem,” he said.
“Well, if you’d been paying
attention instead of going through your homework file—”
“I had to get my English paper because
this is English class and I need it because I don’t have
it,” Aaron said.
“I need you to stay in your seat and listen while we work on this—”
“I need a pencil because I don’t have one any more,” he said.
“You just had a pencil, Aaron.”
“I know, but I can’t find it now. Can I get another one from you?”
“No! Find the one you had.”
As soon as Mrs. Wagoner said that, Aaron was up out of his seat and
back over at the homework file digging through the folders again.
“Mrs. Wagoner,” Lindsay called,
“does this poem have to be about Christmas. Can we make it about
something else?”
“We’re writing a Christmas poem
and I want you to—Aaron, what are you doing now? Aaron?”
The day had been a continuous struggle for Mrs. Wagoner. Aaron took all
the fun out of teaching and turned it into a day long baby sitting
session.
“Back to your seat — now!” Mrs. Wagoner barked.
Aaron scurried back like a surprised cockroach
when the light snapped on. He was holding his pencil in his hand.
“Third graders! Eyes up front, pencils down and pay attention. Aaron, I
will not speak to you again. And if I do, you’re going straight to Mrs.
Abernathy’s office for the rest of the day . . . and maybe the rest of
the year. Is that clear? Now your assignment is to write an acrostic
poem about Christmas.”
“I don’t know what that is, Mrs. Wagoner,” Aaron said.
“Aaron, I’m going to tell you and the rest of the class what it is. No
more interruptions. Jackson Beemer, eyes up here please. You are to
write a word about Christmas down the edge of your page and then find
other words that start with the first letter of the letter of that
word. Now, is that clear? Then we’re going to take some old Christmas
cards I have and make them into new Christmas cards so you can write
your poem in the card give it to your mom or your dad.”
Aaron
looked up at Mrs. Wagoner but he didn’t say anything. He looked
confused and he looked sad and at first Mrs. Wagoner didn’t make the
connection and then she remembered.
“Or you can give it to an uncle,” she added.
Aaron’s brow knitted up in a concerned look as if he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Or maybe your grandparents,” his teacher suggested.
“What if . . . “ Aaron started to say but then stopped.
The rest of the students ignored him as they usually did and continued with their work.
“I know, Mrs. Wagoner,” he said. “I’m going to use the word Christmas
for my poem and then I’ll make up some words to go with it and that
will be the best poem because—”
“Aaron, I don’t want to hear it. Just do your work silently—”
“Do you have some paper I can use? I can’t find mine,” he said.
For the rest of the class period, everyone worked on their poem—even
Aaron. Mrs. Wagoner couldn’t help glancing at the calendar and counting
the days until Christmas vacation started. She had to wrap presents and
make a salad for the staff Christmas party. On Wednesday she was
helping to decorate the tree at church and Thursday she had to finish
her shopping and start planning the Christmas dinner. The turkey had to
be thawed and she needed to find out if Bill’s brother and
sister-in-law would be able to come in time for the family gathering on
Christmas Eve or if—
The sound of the bell interrupted her
thoughts. The class period was over and the students rose together to
file out. All except for Aaron. And at this point, Mrs. Wagoner
couldn’t take another minute of him. She gather her papers and her
grade book and headed out the door.
“I’m almost done, Mrs. Wagoner!” he called after her as she trotted down the hall.
Alone in the classroom, Aaron looked at his poem and read it to himself
again and again. It was perfect. He looked at the Christmas card he had
glued to the front of the folded paper and although the fold wasn’t
exactly right, it was perfect enough for him.
Outside the
classroom, Mr. Trimble stopped his cart of cleaning supplies and came
into the room. He wiped off the white boards and emptied the trash into
a plastic bag he had looped through his belt.
Still at his desk, Aaron turned the card over
in his hands and then closed it and looked up at the janitor.
“I made this for you,” Aaron said.
Mr. Trimble turned slowly, finally looking at the boy.
“For me?” he asked softly.
“We’re supposed to make a Christmas poem
and give it to our moms and dads,” Aaron said, “only I
don’t got one.”
“Oh,” Mr. Trimble said.
“And then Mrs. Wagoner said we could give it
to our uncles but I don’t got an uncle, either.”
“Where do you live, son?” Mr. Trimble asked.
“I live in a group home with Peter and Jenny. They take care of me and two other kids.”
Aaron handed the card to Mr. Trimble. He took it in his big hands and slowly opened it.
“Then Mrs. Wagoner said we could give the card to our grandpas and
grandmas but they live somewhere else and I don’t see them at all. I
think I met them once but I can’t really remember.”
“I don’t have any family, either,” Mr. Trimble said.
“So I want to give it to you,” Aaron said softly, “because you clean up
after us and sometimes we really leave this place a mess, don’t we?”
“Oh, it’s not bad,” the janitor said. “You kids have a lot of fun at
school, don’t you. That’s what school is all about. Learn and have some
fun.”
“I don’t have much fun here. Mrs. Wagoner says I don’t
listen but I can hear everything she says just fine. Sometimes I can’t
make my hands do what my brain says they should. Does that ever happen
to you, Mr. Trimble?”
“Sometimes it does, Aaron,” he laughed.
“Hey, Mr. Trimble,” Aaron said, “how do you know my name?”
“Because I do,” he said. “I see your papers you leave on the floor and
I know where your desk is. I know a lot about you kids. You probably
don’t know much about me. Sometimes I feel like a ghost walking through
these halls. Nobody notices me.”
“You smell like cleaning soap.”
“I suppose I do.”
Mr. Trimble sat down in one of the small desks. He looked so strange,
this big man with his big hands, sitting in the small desk.
“What are you going to do on Christmas Eve, Aaron?” Mr. Trimble asked.
“Jenny said we’re having pizza for dinner.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“It’s Friday night, right? We have pizza every Friday night, Mr.
Trimble. And I overheard Peter say he was going to bring me a present
because he felt sorry for me on account of the fact that I don’t have a
mom or a dad. I do have a mom but she lives someplace else and my dad
doesn’t want me.”
“Christmas isn’t always a fun time,” Mr.
Trimble said. “I don’t have anything special planned. But I sure
appreciate your card. Did you really have me in mind when you made it?”
Aaron smiled.
“Not exactly, Mr. Trimble,” he confessed. “But as soon as you walked
into the room I thought about you. I hope you like it.”
Mr. Trimble read from the poem,
“Christmas happens right in Santa’s thoughts. Many angels
smile.”
“See?” Aaron asked, “the first letter of each word spells out Christmas
and that’s my poem. Did you ever write a poem, Mr. Trimble?”
“Funny you should ask,” he said. “I write lots of poems. Maybe some day
I’ll bring one in and you can read it. And maybe you could write
another poem for me someday. That would be real nice.”
Mr. Trimble stood up and smiled at Aaron.
“I’d better get going,” Aaron said. “My bus will be here soon and they
get mad if I’m late because they’re in a hurry all the time. I like
you, Mr. Trimble, because you’re not in such a hurry. I wish you were
my dad.”
Mr. Trimble was quiet for a long time. Finally he said
to Aaron, “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Merry
Christmas, Aaron. I’ll keep your Christmas poem forever.”
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