After
I quit that winter due to stress, she spoke of me often
I worked
with her my second summer there
middle-aged, militant child expert
barren and bitter over being a professional babysitter
with only a canine to rear
as the vicissitude of her fruits
I heard
she was a lesbian (rumors flew like feathers there)
but her pageboy and rubber sandals lent credibility
the children had imaginary friends
she had protective social illusions of
fabricated firefighters and matriarchal obligations
I was there
to have fun
while she marched around grave and funeral faced
analyzing finger paintings and vomiting theories
on proper discipline and classroom conduct
Perhaps
she was unnerved by my youth
or the childrens partiality toward me, or maybe
it was the train wreck of a personal life that seeped
from her pores like diary passages and manifested
in scowls and bitter, barked decrees
(and she called me moody?)
I remember
the day our director,
(who had said she was a real neat lady )
publicly chewed her out for gossiping about co-workers
(though she gossiped about the kids too)
I could see the rage on her face during story hour
briskly flipping pages while she sat cross-legged,
her inappropriately short, hiking cargos exposing
sun damaged, dimpled thighs