Rotten

We wait together for venerable so and so to arrive. My patience thins, I shift my crossed legs on a cushion against the floor. She enters the room a few minutes late, hardly tardy at all, but I feel perturbed. She tidies a pile of orange yardage, otherwise known as a robe, around her. I ready myself for words that might break open my heart. She describes the most important ways of living in the world, such as expressing compassion and sympathy for all others. Qualities not beyond my reach, but I will not master them anytime soon. Then she reads a sweet and loving poem written to honor a mother. She offers to tell us who wrote it as long as we do not toss her out the door. We agree and listen as she gives us the name of a notorious man who inspires hatred for all but his own type. Even the most vile, she explains, have a goodness somewhere inside them. I want to believe this, but I struggle to keep my hand down, to not ask questions, and to see the peace that all deserve, including this teacher who lives as a hermit above her son's garage.