Eulogy to a Primary School

Back to my hometown for a high school class reunion the past few days. So many faces, so many changes. It always amazes me how time marches on for all of us. Doesn't leave anyone behind even those who remain fixed in our minds at age 18 or whenever we last saw them. Yes, they have aged, too.

Upheaval in the old order can sneak up on a person, especially, when one is not paying attention. Seven years ago the news that my grade school permanently shut its doors jolted me, caused me to remember those kid crammed classrooms, consider how nothing remains static. Which brings me back to my reunion this weekend, and how fortunate we are to be able to reestablish connections that could easily slip away given the years and distance between all of us.



Eulogy to a Primary School


They're closing my grade school:
the one next to the Cathedral
that bulged with kids fifty to a room,
run by nuns in white habits and starched
black veils, masters in the art of yardsticks.

They're closing my grade school:
where they tried vainly to teach me
cursive, told me to mouth the words
during singing, and displayed drawings
of mine only out of compassion.

They're closing my grade school:
established in 1905 in the North End
where Victorian homes once housed
lawyers and doctors generous
with fund raisers and collection plates.

They're closing my grade school:
sitting on a lot across from the convent
where I took piano from Sister Felicitas,
her voice icy when she caught me playing
pop and not Bach in the practice room.

They're closing my grade school:
the one granting diplomas to over
a hundred students in my eighth grade
class but in its last year graduated
less than twenty.

When did it grow so small?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor