Learning to Read

First word: Ill. She spells it out: “George is ill. I-L-L.” The sun and warmth of a September day, a long stretch of grass, woods rising in the distance at the edge of the mowed lawn, seen through the window of a first grade classroom, Saint Philomena’s School, the space crowded with young scholars, my cohorts, all swaying on the verge of literacy, including George, who can only walk with crutches, “crippled” the nuns keep saying, “crippled” says the smiling one in front of our classroom, in her dark habit, teaching us all how to read, including George, pointing at him, making an example, drawing attention, but mine drifts, out the window, toward the encouraging woods that lie clear of the nun’s language, even as she spells it out once more: “George is ill. I-L-L.”