First day subbing at seventy, and the school smells like salt and floor wax. The fishing village never changes, but the kids do.
Recess, I watched two boys by the fence. They clasped palms, tapped elbows, twirled fingers, then bumped fists – a handshake they'd invented, all their own.
Back in class, a kid asked for the measuring tape to check a desk. It clicked, locked at exactly twelve inches, wouldn't budge. We just left it there like a stopped clock.
After the last bell, I caught the bus home – the last route, the one the driver calls 'the long way.' He nodded at me in the mirror. 'You the new sub?'
I said yes. He said, 'Good. We need old folks who still show up.'
Maybe starting over is just learning a new way to say hello. A handshake, a locked tape, a bus driver who remembers your face the first time.