Her Name Was Jean

Her name was unknown to me. She slid into class quietly. An older woman, I was young, so she looked ancient. My first and last impression of her was gray. She looked gray in every direction. Somber, sad, pathetic, a walking apology. She never volunteered to read any of her poems. They were brilliant; I did not realize that until after class When she slid them onto my podium on the way out. She was silent the first six weeks of class, every Monday night. She contributed nothing. If I asked her a direct question she ignored me. Her name is Jean; I know that now and nothing else. She is a mystery. I do know that she walks to class, I see her arrive early, sometimes ahead of me. It is winter, a blizzard, a horrible awful terrible day. She is walking in a thin dress. It is after class. I pull my car up and insist that she get in. She does but makes no sound. I feel like I am returning a ghost to its crypt. We get to her house and I walk her to the door. The door flies open. A personality-plus woman about the same age runs out and hugs me. “I know who YOU ARE” She says. “Come in! Come in!” She is a delight. I sit down at the coffee table. She runs to get me a glass of water. My eye hits the glass of the table. There are pictures of me teaching class. Picture after picture after picture. Which would explain the flashes of light I see from time to time.