Shhhh

Edna Whittemore had been a school teacher when all of the grades fit into one room (and it was possible to help each and every one of them learn and rein themselves in). "Shhhhh, now," she'd say when the fidgeting and sounds started. "Remember to listen with your eyes; hear what the books are saying. How will you use this in your future? Who will you be next?" It was true and it distracted them, but (every teacher knows) repetition is the mother of invention. Over and over, "shhhh, now" and "shhhh, now" again - take a moment, say you're sorry, have a snack, try again. "Shhhh, now," Edna would comfort (and add a pat or hug [when you could still touch them kindly]), hearing the weeping, worrying, and words inflicted. "Re-set yourself. Think. We know what we need; how can we help people understand us?" They had loved her, remembered her long past a succession of others who had prepped them for ladder-climbing and big houses in new developments. And she had loved them, letting them all flood out from her in waves. "Shhhh, now; we are all drops in a great ocean. Swim out bravely; I'm always here, waving from the shallows." One day, Death came dressed as a smart and happy lad from town and sat with her in the facility, holding her hand. "I'm so sorry," Edna whispered, "but I'm very old now and I cannot find your name." "Shhhh, now," Death said, so tenderly and warmly that it brought a tear to both of their eyes. "We've no time for things like names; I've always been here and the tide's come in. Shall we?"