Alex Honnold climbed a building in Taipei.
Alex Pretti asked, “Are you okay?”
Alex, a four-year-old child, wrote her name.
I am a teacher.
My first student was called Alex,
short for Alexandria.
I am a student too.
We learned together.
Amigas aprendiendo.
She didn’t speak Spanish,
but people assumed she did.
She taught me to love the letter A.
Alliteration abounded all around.
Alex Honnold climbed a building in Taipei.
Alex Pretti asked, “Are you okay?”
Alex, a four-year-old child, wrote her name.
She taught me games,
hide from the bad guys —
the men with badges and guns.
Be afraid, she’d say,
They might take you.
She told me about people in cages,
friends, family, other children.
Where are they? Can you find them?
She learned consonants and
how vowels erupt from us
in moments of agony,
in moments of fear,
in moments of longing.
She practiced with letters.
She asked, How do you spell…
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Will I see you again?
When?