It was my biology teacher who taught me
to let things go. It was true, I didn’t like him,
no one did. And that is why, when he left
his coffee cup on our table and we
were dissecting rabbits, Kathy looked
at me with a small pink part
in her hands, then eyed his cup.
My face lit up with the wickedness
of it, but I mouthed to her, No,
then watched as she dropped
the bit in. It didn’t float. There
are moments of our lives
we will forever revisit and wish
we had been more brave—
but I was scared to betray my friend,
scared to make waves. As it is,
we waited for him to pick up the cup,
and when he did, tried not to stare
as we wondered when he would
take a sip. Five minutes before
the bell rang, we rebagged
our strange accomplice and wiped
the table clean, then left the room
not seeing what happened next.
What happened next. I thought all night
about the effects of formaldehyde.
I thought he might die. I thought
of how I could have taken his cup
from his desk and quietly poured it out.
I thought of the twist in his heart
when he found bit at the bottom.
But the next day in biology, there
he was, corduroy coat and big brown glasses,
his awkward smile, his coffee cup.
He didn’t mention the crime.
I could barely look up. I had never felt
so small. And if he knew, he never said.
Sometimes the worst punishments
involve lack of consequence,
leaving us to live with our offenses.
And though I don’t recall his name,
I do recall his grace. I swore never again
to keep silent for such a prank.
I’d like to think that if we met, I’d tell him
about that day. And how sorry I am
I didn’t speak up. And how much I admired
the way he let it go. Could I? To this day,
what I remember most, the horror
blossoming in my stomach
the color of rabbit flesh. And
when I dared to look at him, his smile.
