Her eyes tell the story.

It's Monday. 

"I can't find my book", she mutters, sauntering slowly past my desk.

"No problem", I answer as kindly as possible. She does this every week. "Just bring them back whenever you do."

She looks at me, as if waiting for me to say more, but doesn't speak.

She doesn't have to. Her eyes tell the story. 

So young to be so calloused, I think sadly.

Note to self:  Try harder in the future!

It's Friday. 

She slips in quietly placing the overdue book on my desk.

"Awesome, you found it!" I exclaim.

She nods without looking and walks toward the graphic novels.

"How are you doing today?" I ask, hoping to disarm her with a smile.

"Good", she replies halfheartedly. But she's not, not really. Her eyes tell the story.

She searches, I organize....and for awhile we're entrenched in our own private thoughts. 

"Are you doing anything fun this weekend?" I ask finally, attempting to make a connection.

She mumbles, I can't hear her, I ask her to repeat, a little louder, please. She deserves to be heard.

She repeats.

I listen.

Her tone becomes more animated as her plans for the weekend unfold. (A recital, A costumes, A hairdo, Her dad.)

I hear her, really hear her.  She knows.  Her eyes tell the story.

"You'll do great", I encourage her as we walk toward the door. 

I mean it! she knows it! Her eyes tell the story.  


It's Monday

"I remembered my books", she announces, stopping at my desk.

"Awesome!" I grin. My eyes meet hers.  "How was your dance recital?" I remember to ask.

"It was great!" she exclaims, and I know it's the truth. Her eyes tell the story.